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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 


WILLIAM  OILMAN  THOMPSON. 


THE    MONEY-KING 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS 


-Library. 


California- 


p 


THE 


M  O  NE  Y-KIN  G 


AND 


OTHER   POEMS. 


BY 


JOHN   G.   SAXE. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR   AND    FIELDS 

M  DCCC  LX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 

JOHN  G.  SAXE, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED      AND      PRINTED      BY 
H.    0.   HOUGHTON   AND   COMPANY. 


To  MRS.  GEORGE  P.  MARSH  : 

A  Lady  endowed  with  the  best  Gifts  of  Nature  and 
Culture,  and  adorned  with  all  Womanly  Graces, — this 
volume  is  inscribed  by  her  Friend, 

'The  Author. 


PREFACE. 


ABOUT  ten  years  ago,  at  the  instance  of  my  friend, 
JAMES  T.  FIELDS,  Esq.,  and  with  much  misgiving,  I 
ventured  on  the  publication  of  a  volume  of  poems. 
For  the  favor  it  has  found  with  the  public,  —  as 
evinced  in  a  demand  for  sixteen  editions  of  the  book  ; 
and  with  the  critics,  —  as  shown  in  many  kind  and 
scholarly  reviews,  —  I  take  this  occasion  to  express 
my  grateful  acknowledgments.  Of  the  little  which  I 
have  written  since  the  first  publication  of  that  volume,  the 
greater  part  will  be  found  in  this.  In  the  arrangement 
of  my  materials,  I  have  put  "  The  Money-King "  in 
front,  simply  on  account  of  its  length ;  as,  in  military 
usage,  the  tallest  soldier  is  commonly  placed  at  the 
head  of  the  file.  For  the  two  episodes  which  inter 
rupt  the  thread  of  this  otherwise  consecutive  perform 
ance,  I  must  plead  the  authority  of  greater  names, 
ancient  and  modern.  The  poem  entitled  "  The  Way 
of  the  World,"  is  little  more  than  a  paraphrase  of  a 


viii  PREFACE. 

passage  in  a  prose  story  lately  published  in  Frazer's 
Magazine  ;  and  the  plot  of  the  Chinese  Tale  is  mainly 
borrowed  from  an  extremely  clever  English  book,  enti 
tled  "  The  Porcelain  Tower."  The  rest  of  the  pieces, 
for  aught  I  can  say,  are  as  original  as  the  verses  of 
other  men  who  have  the  misfortune  to  write  at  this 
rather  late  period  in  the  history  of  letters ;  but  if  (as 
may  possibly  happen)  any  expressions  which  I  have 
supposed  to  be  my  own,  should  be  found  in  the  works 
of  earlier  writers,  I  can  only  answer,  with  the  hearty 
indignation  of  old  DONATUS  :  —  "  Pereant  isti  qui  ante 
nostra  dixerunt !  " 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE    MONEY-KING, 13 

I  'M    GROWING    OLD,              ......  33 

SPES    EST    VAXES, 36 

THE    WAY   OF    THE    WORLD, 38 

THE    HEAD    AND    THE    HEART,         ....  40 

MY   CASTLE    IN   SPAIN, 42 

A   REFLECTIVE    RETROSPECT,          ....  45 

DO    YOU    THINK   HE   IS    MARRIED  ?               ...  50 

EARLY    RISING, 53 

IDEAL    AND    REAL, 56 

HOW   THE   MONEY   GOES, 00 

TALE    OF    A    DOG:    IN   TWO    PARTS,    ....  62 

LITTLE   JERRY,    THE    MILLER,          ....  68 

HOW    CYRUS    LAID    THE    CABLE,          .            .            .            .  71 

THE    JOLLY    MARINER, 74 

YE    TAILYOR-MAN,      .......  79 

TOWN   AND    COUNTRY  :    AN    ECLOGUE,              .            .  82 

MY    FAMILIAR,               ....  87 

HOW   THE    LAWYERS    GOT    A    PATRON    SAINT,          .  91 

THE    KING    AND    THE    COTTAGER,        ....  94 

LOVE    AND   LUCRE, 103 

DEATH    AND    CUPID, 107 

THE    FAMILY-MAN,  109 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

NE    CREDE    COLOKI,  .  .  •  .  .  .111 

CLARA    TO    CLOE,  .  .  .  .  .  .  H3 

CLOE    TO    CLARA,         .  .  .  .  .  .  .116 

WISHING, 120 

RICHARD    OF    GLOSTER, 123 

HO-HO;    OR    THE    GOLDEN   BELT,    .  .  .  .  132 

TOM    BROWN    IN   GOTHAM,  .  .  .  .  .139 

POST-PRANDIAL    VERSES,         .  .  •  .  .  151 

LINES    ON   MY   THIRTY-NINTH   BIRTHDAY,  .  .         155 

SONNET    TO   , 157 

ON   A   FAMOUS    WATER-SUIT, 158 

KISSING   CASUISTRY, 158 

THE    LOST    CHARACTER, 159 

REVERSING   THE    FIGURES, 159 

TO    A    POETICAL    CORRESPONDENT,    ....         159 

A    DILEMMA, 160 

ON    A   LONG-WINDED    ORATOR,  .  .  .  .160 

THE    THREE    WIVES:    A    JUBILATION,     .  .  .  161 

THE    PRESS 165 

NOTES, 181 


THE    MONEY-KING. 


A    POEM    DELIVERED    BEFORE   THE   PHI    BETA    KAl'PA    SOCIETY   OF 
YALE    COLLEGE   1854. 


THE    MONEY-KING. 


As   landsmen,    sitting   in   luxurious   ease, 
Talk   of  the   dangers    of  the    stormy    seas  ; 
As   fireside   travellers,   with   portentous   mien, 
Tell   tales   of  countries   they   have   never   seen  ; 
As   parlor-soldiers,   graced   with   fancy-scars, 
Rehearse   their   bravery    in   imagined   wars  ; 
As   arrant   dunces   have   been   known   to   sit 
In   grave    discourse    of  wisdom    and   of  wit  ; 
As   paupers,   gathered   in   congenial   flocks, 
Babble   of  banks,   insurances,   and   stocks  ; 
As    each   is   oft'nest   eloquent   of  what 
He   hates   or   covets,   but   possesses,  not ;  — 
As    cowards   talk    of  pluck  ;   misers,   of  waste  ; 
Scoundrels,    of  honor  ;   country-clowns,   of  taste  ; 
Ladies,   of  logic  ;   devotees,   of.  sin  ;. 


THE   MONEY-KIXG. 

Topers,   of  water  ;   temperance-men,   of  gin  ;  — 
I   sing   of  MONEY  !  —  no   ignoble   theme, 
But   loftier   far   than   poetasters   dream, 
Whose   fancies,    soaring   to   their   native    moon, 
Rise   like   a   bubble    or   a    gay   balloon, 
Whose   orb   aspiring   takes   a   heavenward   flight, 
Just    in    proportion    as    it 's    thin    and    light  ! 

Kings   must   have    Poets.      From    the    earliest   times, 
Monarchs   have   loved    celebrity   in    rhymes  ; 
From   good    King   Robert,   who,    in   Petrarch's   days, 
Taught   to   mankind   the    proper   use   of  bays, 
And,    singling   out   the    prince   of  Sonneteers, 
Twined  wreaths   of  laurel  'round   his  blushing  ears  ; 
Down   to   the    Queen,    who,    to   her   chosen   bard, 
In    annual   token   of  her   kind   regard, 
Sends,   not   alone    the   old    poetic   greens, 
But,   like   a   woman   and   the   best   of  queens, 
Adds   to   the   leaves,   to   keep    them   fresh   and   fine, 
The    wholesome   moisture    of  a   pipe   of  wine  !  — 
So   may   her   minstrel,    crowned   with    royal   bays, 
Alternate   praise   her   pipe,   and   pipe   her   praise ! 
E'en   let   him   chant   his    smooth,    euphonious   lays, 


THE    MOXEY-KING.  15 

A   loftier   theme  my   humbler   muse    essay? ; 
A    mightier    monarch    be    it   hers    to    sing, 
And   claim,   her   laurel   from   the    Money- King ! 

Great   was    King   Alfred;    and   if  history    state 
His   actions   truly,    good   as   well   as   great. 
Great   was   the   Norman ;    he   whose   martial   hordes 
Taught   law    and   order   to   the    Saxon   lords, 
With    gentler   thoughts    their    rugged   minds    imbued, 
And   raised   the   nation   whom    he   first   subdued. 
Great   was    King    Bess  !  —  I   see   the    critic   smile, 
As   though   the   muse    mistook    her   proper   style  ; 
But   to   her   purpose   she   will   stoutly   cling, 
The   royal   maid   was    "  every   inch    a    King  ! " 
Great   was   Napoleon,  —  and   I   would    that   fate 
Might    prove   his   namesake-nephew    half  as    great  ; 
Meanwhile    this   hint   I   venture   to   advance  :  — 
What    France    admires   is    good   enough   for    France ! 
Great   princes   were   they   all  ;   but   greater    far 
Than    English    King,    or    mighty    Russian    Czar, 
Or   Pope   of  Rome,   or   haughty    Queen   of  Spain, 
Baron   of  Germany,   or    Royal    Dane, 
Or    Gallic   Emperor,   or   Persian    Khan, 


16  THE   MONEY-KING. 

Or   any   other   merely   mortal   man, 
Is   the   great   monarch   that   my    muse   would    sing, 
That   mighty   potentate,    the    Money-King  ! 
His    Kingdom   vast   extends   o'er   every   land, 
And   nations   bow   before   his   high    command  ; 
The   weakest   tremble,   and   his   power   obey, 
The   strongest   honor,    and   confess   his    sway. 
He   rules   the   Rulers  !  —  e'en   the   tyrant    Czar 
Asks   his   permission    ere   he   goes    to    war  ; 
The   Turk,    submissive   to   his   royal   might, 
By   his   consent   has   gracious   leave   to   fight  ; 
Whilst   e'en    Britannia   makes   her   humblest   bow 
Before   her   Barings,   not   her   Barons   now, 
Or   on   the    Rothschild   suppliantly    calls, 
(Her   affluent   "uncle"   with   the   golden    balls,) 
Begs   of  the   Jew   that   he   will   kindly   spare 
Enough   to   put   her   trident   in   repair, 
And   pawns    her   diamonds,  while  she  humbly  craves 
Leave  of  the  Money- King   once   more  to  "  rule   the 
waves  ! " 

He    wears   no   crown   upon    his   royal   head, 
But   many   millions   in   his   purse,    instead ; 


THE   MOXEY-KING.  17 

He   keeps   no   halls   of  state ;   but   holds   his  court 
In   dingy   rooms    where   greed   and   thrift   resort  ; 
In   iron    chests   his    wondrous    wealth    he   hoards ; 
Banks   are   his   parlors  ;   brokers   are   his   lords, 
Bonds,   bills,   and   mortgages,   his   favorite   books, 
Gold   is   his   food,   and   coiners   are   his    cooks  ; 
Ledgers,   his   records ;    stock-reports,    his    news ; 
Merchants,    his   yeomen,    and   his   bondsmen,   Jews  ; 
Kings   are   his    subjects,,  gamblers   are   his   knaves, 
Spendthrifts,   his   fools,   and   misers   are   his    slaves  ! 
The   good,   the   bad,   his   golden   favor   prize, 
The   high,   the   low,   the   simple,   and   the   wise, 
The   young,   the   old,   the   stately,   and   the   gay,  — 
All   bow   obedient   to   his   royal   sway ! 

See   where,   afar,  the   bright   Pacific   shore 
Gleams   in   the    sun   with   sands   of  shining   ore,. 
His   last,   great   empire    rises   to   the   view, 
And   shames    the   wealth   of  India   and   Peru! 
Here,   throned   within   his   gorgeous    "  golden   gate," 
He   wields   his   sceptre   o'er   the   rising    State ; 
Surveys   his    conquest   with   a  joyful   eye, 
Nor   for   a   greater   heaves    a    single    sigh ! 


18  THE   MONEY-KING. 

Here,   quite   beyond   the   classic   poet's    dream, 
Pactolus    runs    in    every    winding   stream ; 
The   mountain    cliffs    the   glittering   ore   enfold, 
And    every   reed   that   rustles   whispers,    "  gold  ! " 

If  to   his    sceptre    some    dishonor    clings, 

Why  should  we  marvel  ?  —  'tis  the  fate  of  Kings  !  — 

Their   power   too   oft   perverted   by   abuse, 

Their   manners    cruel,   or   their   morals   loose, 

The   best   at    times    have    wandered   far   astray 

From    simple    Virtue's    unseductive    way ; 

And   few,   of  all,   at   once   could   make   pretence 

To   royal   robes   and   rustic   innocence ! 

He   builds   the   house    where    Christian    people   pray, 
And   rears    a   bagnio  just   across    the  way ; 
Pays    to   the   priest   his    stinted   annual   fee ; 
Rewards    the   lawyer   for   his   venal   plea ; 
Sends    an   apostle   to   the   heathen's   aid ; 
And   cheats   the    Choctaws,   for   the   good   of  trade ; 
Lifts   by   her   heels   an   Ellsler   to   renown, 
Or,    bribing    "  Jenny,"    brings    an    angel    down  ! 
He    builds    the    Theatres,    and   gambling    Halls, 


THE   MONEY-KING.  19 

Lloyds    and   Almacks,    St.    Peter's   and    St.    Paul's ; 
Sin's    gay   retreats,   and    Fashion's    gilded   rooms, 
Hotels    and    Factories,    Palaces   and   Tombs ; 
Bids    Commerce    spread   her   wings   to   every   gale ; 
Bends   to    the   breeze   the   pirate's    bloody    sail ; 
Helps    Science   seek   new   worlds   among   the   stars ; 
Profanes    our   own   with   mercenary    wars ; 
The   friend   of  wrong,   the    equal   friend    of  right, 
Oft   may    we   bless,    and   oft   deplore    his   might, 
As   buoyant    Hope,   or   darkening   fears   prevail, 
And   good   or   evil   turns   the   moral   scale. 

All   fitting   honor   I    would   fain   accord, 
Whene'er   he   builds   a   temple   to   the   Lord  ; 
But   much   I   grieve    he    often    spends    his    pelf, 
As   it   were   raised   in   honor   of  himself; 
Or,   what   were    worse,   and   more    profanely    odd, 
A   place   to   worship   some    Egyptian    God  ! 
I   wish   his    favorite    architects    were   graced 
With   sounder  judgment,    and    a    Christian    taste. 

Immortal   Wren !    what   fierce,    convulsive   shocks 
Would  jar   thy   bones   within    their   leaden   box, 
Could'st   thou   but   look   across   the    briny  spray, 


20  THE   MONEY-KING. 

And   see   some   churches  of  the   present   day !  — 
The   lofty   dome   of  consecrated   bricks, 
Where   all   the   "  orders "   in   disorder    mix, 
To   form   a  temple   whose   incongruous   frame 
Confounds   design   and   puts  the   Arts   to   shame ! 
Where    "  styles "   discordant   on   the   vision  jar, 
Where    Greek   and   Roman   are   again   at   war, 
And,    as   of  old,   the*  unrelenting    Goth 
Comes   down   at   last   and   owerwhelms   them   both ! 

Once   on   a   time   I   heard   a   parson   say, 

(Talking   of  churches   in    a   sprightly   way,) 

That   there   was   more    Religion   in   the   walls 

Of  towering   "  Trinity,"    or   grand   "  St.    Paul's," 

Than   one   could   find,   upon   the    strictest   search, 

In   half  the    saints    within   the    Christian    Church ! 

A   layman    sitting   at   the   parson's   side, 

To   this   new   dogma   thus    at   once   replied :  — 

"  If,   as   you   say,    Religion   has   her   home 

In   the   mere   walls   that   form   the   sacred   dome, 

It   seems   to   me   the   very   plainest   case, 

To   climb   the   steeple   were   a   growth   in   grace; 

And   he   to   whom    the   pious   strength   were   given 


THE   MONEY-KING.  21 

To   reach   the   highest   were    the   nearest    Heaven ! " 
I  thought   the   answer  just ;   and   yet   'tis   clear 
A    solemn   aspect,   grand   and   yet   severe, 
Becomes   the   house   of  God.     'Tis   hard   to    say 
Who   from   the    proper   mark   are   most   astray  — 
They   who   erect   for   holy    Christian    rites, 
A   gay    Pagoda   with   its    tinsel   lights, 
Or   they   who   offer   to   the   God   of  Love, 
A   gorgeous   Temple   of  the   pagan   Jove ! 

Immortal    Homer  £nd   Tassoni    sing 

What   vast   results   from   trivial   causes    spring ; 

How   naughty   Helen   by   her   stolen  joy 

Brought   woe   and   ruin   to    unhappy    Troy ; 

How,   for   a   bucket,   rash    Bologna   sold 

More    blood    and    tears    than    twenty    such    could 

hold !  — 

Thy   power,    O   Money,    shows    results   as    strange 
As   aught   revealed   in    History's    widest   range ; 
Thy   smallest   coin   of  shining   silver   shows 

X 

More   potent   magic   than   a   conjurer   knows ! 

In   olden   times  —  if  classic   poets   say 
The   simple   truth,   as   poets    do   to-day  — 


22  THE   MONEY-KING. 

When    Charon's   boat   conveyed   a   spirit   o'er 
The   Lethean   water   to   the   Hadean   shore, 
The   fare    was  just   a    penny  —  not   too   great, 
The   moderate,   regular,    Stygian   statute   rate. 
Now,   for   a   shilling,    he   will   cross    the    stream, 
(His   paddles    whirling    to   the   force   of  steam !) 
And   bring,    obedient   to   some   wizard   power, 
Back   to   the   Earth   more   spirits   in   an   hour, 
Than    Brooklyn's   famous   ferry   could   convey, 
Or   thine,    Hoboken,   in   the   longest   day ! 
Time   was   when   men   bereaved   of  vital   breath, 
Were   calm   and   silent   in   the   realms   of  Death ; 
When   mortals   dead    and   decently   inurned, 
Were   heard   no   more ;   no   traveller   returned, 
Who   once   had   crossed    the   dark    Plutonian    strand, 
To    whisper   secrets    of  the    spirit-land  — 
Save   when   perchance    some    sad,    unquiet   soul 
Among   the   tombs   might   wander   on    parole,  — 
A    well-bred   ghost,   at   night's    bewitching   noon, 
Returned   to   catch   some   glimpses   of  the   moon, 
Wrapt   in    a   mantle   of  unearthly   white, 
(The    only   'rapping   of  an   ancient   sprite !) 
Stalked   round   in   silence  till   the  break  of  day, 


THE   MONET-KING.  23 

Then   from   the    Earth   passed    unperceived   away ! 

Now   all   is    changed ;   the   musty    maxim   fails, 
And   dead    men   do   repeat   the   queerest   tales ! 
Alas,   that    here,   as   in   the   books,   we    see 
The   travellers   clash,   the   doctors   disagree ; 
Alas,   that   all,   the   further   they    explore, 
For   all   their   search   are   but   confused    the   more ! 

Ye    great   departed  !  —  men    of  mighty    mark  — 
Bacon   and   Newton,    Adams,   Adam    Clarke, 
Edwards    and    Whitefield,    Franklin,    Robert    Hall, 
Calhoun,    Clay,    Channing,    Daniel    Webster  —  all 
Ye   great   quit-tenants   of  this    earthly   ball,  — 
If  in   your   new   abodes   ye    cannot   rest, 
But   must   return,    0,    grant   us    this    request :  — 
Come   with   a   noble   and   celestial   air, 
To   prove   your   title   to   the   names   ye   bear ! 
Give    some    clear   token   of  your   heavenly   birth ! 
Write   as   good    English   as   ye    wrote   on    Earth ! 
Show   not   to   all,   in    ranting   prose   and   verse, 
The   spirit's   progress    is   from    bad   to   worse ; 
And,    what   were   once   superfluous   to    advise, 
Don't   tell,    I   beg   you,   such   egregious    lies !  — 
Or   if  perchance   your   agents   are   to   blame, 


24  THE   MONEY-KING. 

Don't   let   them    trifle    with   your   honest   fame ; 
Let   chairs   and   tables   rest,   and   "  rap "   instead, 
Ay,  "knock"  your  slippery  "Mediums"  on  the  head! 

What  direful   woes    the   hapless   man   attend, 
Who   in   the   means   sees   life's   supremest   end ; 
The   wretched   miser,  —  money's   sordid   slave,  — 
His    only  joy   to   gather   and   to   save. 
For   this   he   wakes   at   morning's    early   light, 
Toils   through   the   day,   and    ponders    in    the   night ; 
For   this,  —  to   swell   his    heap   of  tarnished   gold, — 
Sweats   in   the   sun,   and   shivers   in   the    cold, 
And   suffers   more   from   hunger   every   day 
Than   the   starved   beggar   whom   he   spurns   away. 
Death    comes    erewhile   to   end   his   worldly   strife ; 
With   all   his    saving   he   must   lose   his   life ! 
Perchance   the    Doctor   might   protract   his   breath, 
And   stay   the    dreadful   messenger   of  death ; 
But   none   is   there   to   comfort   or   advise ; 
'Twould   cost   a   dollar !  —  so   the   miser  dies. 

Sad    is    the    sight   when   Money's   power    controls 
In   wedlock's    chains   the    fate   of  human    souls. 


THE    MONEY-KING.  25 

From   mine   to   mint,   curst   is   the    coin   that   parts 
In   helpless   grief  two   loving   human   hearts ; 
Or  joins   in   discord,  jealousy   and   hate, 
A   sordid   suitor  to   a   loathing   mate ! 

I   waive   the   case,   the   barren   case   of  those 
Who   have   no   hearts   to   cherish   or   to   lose ; 
Whose   wedded   state   is   but   a   bargain   made 
In   due   accordance   with   the   laws   of  trade ; 
When   the    prim    parson  joins   their   willing   hands, 
To   marry    City   lots   to   Western   lands, 
Or   in   connubial   ecstasy   to   mix 
Cash   and   "  collateral ; "   ten-per-cents    with   six, 
And   in   soft   dalliance   securely   locks 
Impassioned   dollars   with    enamored   stocks, 
Laugh   if  you   will  —  and  who   can  well   refrain  ?  — 
But   waste   no   tears,    nor   pangs    of  pitying   pain ; 
Hearts  such  as  these  may  play  the  queerest  pranks, 
But   never   break  —  except    with   breaking   banks  ! 

Yet,   let   me   hint,    a   thousand   maxims   prove 
Plutus   may   be   the    truest   friend   to   Love. 
u  Love   in   a   cottage "   cosily   may  dwell, 
But   much   prefers   to   have   it   furnished    well !  — 


26  THE   MONEY-KING. 

A   parlor   ample,   and   a    kitchen    snug, 

A   handsome    carpet,    an    embroidered   rug, 

A    well-stored   pantry,    and   a   tidy   maid, 

A   blazing   hearth,   a   cooling   window-shade  — 

Though   merely   mortal,   money-purchased   things, 

Have    wondrous    power    to    clip    Love's    errant 

wings  ! 

"  Love   in   a   cottage,"   isn't    just   the   same, 
When  wind   and  water   strive   to  quench   his   flame ; 
Too   oft   it   breeds   the   sharpest   discontent, 
That   puzzling   question,   "  how   to   pay   the   rent ; " 
A   smoky    chimney   may   alone    suffice 
To  dim   the   radiance   of  the   fondest   eyes ; 
A   northern    blast,   beyond   the    slightest   doubt, 
May   fairly   blow    the   torch   of  Hymen   out; 
And   I   have   heard   a   worthy   Matron   hold, 
(As   one    who   knew   the   truth   of  what   she   told,) 
Love  once  was  drowned,  though  reckoned  water-proof, 
By   the    mere   dripping   of  a   leaky   roof! 

Full   many   a    wise    philosopher   has   tried 

Mankind   in   fitting   orders    to    divide ; 

And   by  their   forms,   their   fashions,   and  their   face, 


THE   MONEY-KING.  27 

To   group,   assort,   and   classify   the    race. 

One    would   distinguish   people    by   their    books ; 

Another,   quaintly,    solely   by    their   cooks ; 

And  one   who   graced    the   philosophic   bench, 

Found    these    three    classes  —  "  women,    men,    and 

French  ! 

The   best   remains,   of  all   that   I   have   known, 
A   broad   distinction,   brilliant,   and   my   own  — 
Of  all   mankind,   I   classify   the    lot :  — 
Those   who   have   Money,   and   those   who   have   not ! 

Think'st   thou   the   line   a   poet's   fiction  ?  —  then 
Go   look   abroad   upon   the   ways   of  men ! 
Go   ask   the    Banker,    with   his   golden    seals ; 
Go   ask   the   borrower,   cringing   at   his   heels ; 
Go   ask   the   maid  who,   emulous   of  woe, 
Discards   the   worthier   for   the    wealthier   beau ; 
Go   ask   the    Parson,    when   a   higher   prize 
Points   with   the   salary   where   his   duty   lies ; 
Go   ask   the    Lawyer,   who,   in   legal   smoke, 
Stands,   like    a   stoker,   redolent   of  "  Coke," 
And   swings    his    arms   to   emphasize    a  plea 
Made   doubly   ardent   by  a   golden   fee ; 


28  THE   MONEY-KING. 

Go   ask   the    Doctor,    who    has    kindly  sped 
Old    Crresus,   dying   on   a   damask   bed, 
While   his   poor   neighbor  —  wonderful   to   tell  — 
Was   left   to   Nature,   suffered,   and   got   well ! 
Go   ask   the    belle   in   high   patrician   pride, 
Who   spurns   the   maiden   nurtured   at   her   side, 
Her   youth's   loved   playmate   at   the   village-school, 
Ere   changing  fortune   taught   the   rigid   rule 
Which   marks   the   loftier   from   the   lowlier   lot  — 
Those  who   have  money  from   those  who   have  not ! 

Of  all   the   ills   that  owe   their   baneful   rise 
To   wealth   o'ergrown,   the   most   despotic   vice 
Is    Circean   Luxury ;   prolific   dame 
Of  mental   impotence,   and   moral   shame, 
And  all   the   cankering   evils   that   debase 
The   human   form,   and   dwarf  the   human   race. 

See   yon   strange   figure,   and   a   moment   scan 
That   slenderest   sample   of  the   genus,   man ! 
Mark,   as   he   ambles,   those   precarious   pegs 
Which   by   their   motion   must   be   deemed   his   legs ! 
He   has    a   head,  —  one   may   be   sure   of  that 
By  just   observing   that   he    wears   a   hat; 


THE   MONEY-KING.  29 

That   he   has   arms   is   logically   plain 

From   his   \vide   coat-sleeves    and   his   pendant   cane  ; 

A   tongue   as    well  —  the    inference   is   fair, 

Since,   on   occasion,   he   can   lisp   and   swear. 

You   ask   his   use  ?  —  that's   not   so   very    clear, 

Unless   to   spend   five   thousand   pounds   a-year 

In   modish   vices  which   his    soul  adores, 

Drink,    dress,    and    gaming,    horses,    hounds,    and 

scores 

Qf  other   follies    which   I   can't   rehearse, 
Dear   to   himself  and   dearer   to   his   purse. 
No   product   he   of  Fortune's   fickle   dice, 
The   due   result  of  Luxury   and   Vice, 
Three   generations   have   sufficed    to   bring 
That   narrow-chested,   pale,   enervate   thing 
Down   from   a   man  —  for   marvel   as   you   will, 
His   huge   great-grandsire   fought   on   Bunker-Hill ! 
Bore,   without   gloves,   a   musket   through   the   war ; 
Came   back   adorned    with   many   a   noble   scar ; 
Labored   and   prospered   at    a   thriving   rate, 
And,    dying,   left   his   heir   a   snug   estate,  — 
Which   grew   apace   upon   his   busy   hands, 
Stocks,    ships,   and   factories,   tenements    and   lands, 


30  THE   MONEY-KING. 

All   here   at   last  —  the   money   and   the   race  — 
The   latter   ending   in   that    foolish   face, 
The   former   wandering,   far  beyond   his    aim, 
Back  to   the   rough   plebeians   whence   it   came ! 

Enough   of  censure ;   let   my   humble   lays 
Employ   one   moment  in   congenial   praise. 
Let   other   pens   with   pious   ardor   paint 
The   selfish   virtues   of  the   cloistered   saint ; 
In    lettered   marble   let   the   stranger   read 
Of  him   who,    dying,   did   a   worthy   deed, 
And   left   to   charity   the  cherished   store 
Which,    to   his   sorrow,   he    could   hoard   no   more. 
I   venerate   the   nobler   man    who   gives 
His   generous   dollars   while   the   donor   lives ; 
Gives   with   a   heart   as   liberal   as   the   palms 
That   to   the   needy   spread   his   honored   alms ; 
Gives   with  a   head   whose   yet   unclouded   light 
To   worthiest   objects   points   the   giver's   sight ; 
Gives   with   a   hand   still   potent   to    enforce 
His   well-aimed   bounty,   and   direct   its    course ;  — 
Such   is   the   giver   who   must   stand    confest 
In   giving   glorious,   and   supremely   blest ! 


THE   MONEY-KING.  31 

One   such   as   this   the    captious    world   could   find 
In   noble   Perkins,    angel   of  the    blind; 
One    such   as    this   in    princely    Lawrence   shone, 
Ere   heavenly   kindred    claimed    him   for   their   own ! 

To  me  the  boon   may  gracious  Heaven  assign,  — 
No   cringing   suppliant   at   Mammon's   shrine, 
Nor   slave   of  Poverty,  —  with  joy   to    share 
The   happy   mean   expressed   in    Agur's    prayer :  — 
&  house    (my   own)    to   keep   me   safe   and    warm, 
A   shade   in   sunshine,    and   a   shield    in    storm ; 
A   generous   board,   and   fitting   raiment,   clear 
Of  debts   and   duns   throughout   the   circling   year ; 
Silver   and   gold,   in   moderate   store,   that   I 
May   purchase  joys   that   only   these   can   buy ; 
Some   gems   of  art,   a   cultured   mind   to   please, 
Books,   pictures,   statues,   literary  ease. 
That   "  Time   is   Money "   prudent    Franklin    shows 
In   rhyming   couplets,   and   sententious    prose. 
O,   had   he   taught   the  world,   in   prose    arid    rhyme. 
The   higher    truth    that   Money   may    be    Time ! 
And   showed   the   people,   in   his   pleasant    ways, 
The   art    of  coining   dollars   into   days ! 


32  THE    MOXEY-KIXG. 

Days   for   improvement,    days   for   social   life, 

Days   for   your   God,  your  children,  and   your  wife  ; 

Some   days   for   pleasure,    and   an    hour   to    spend 

In   genial    converse   with    an   honest    friend. 

Such   days   be  mine !  —  and   grant   me,   Heaven,  but 

this, 

"With  blooming  health,  man's  highest  earthly  bliss, — 
And    I   will   read,    without   a   sigh   or   frown, 
The   startling   news    that   stocks   are    going   down ; 
Hear   without   envy   that   a   stranger   hoards 
Or   spends   more   treasure   than   a   mint   affords ; 
See   my   next   neighbor   pluck   a   golden   plum, 
Calm  and   content   within   my   cottage-home ; 
Take    for   myself  what   honest   thrift   may   bring, 
And   for   his   kindness,   bless   the   Money-King! 


I'M  GROWING   OLD. 

MY   days   pass   pleasantly   away  ; 

My   nights   are   blest   with   sweetest   sleep 
I  feel   no   symptoms   of  decay ; 

I   have   no   cause   to   mourn   nor    weep ; 
My   foes   are   impotent   and   shy ; 

My   friends   are   neither   false  nor   cold, 
And   yet,   of  late,   I   often  sigh  — 

I'm   growing   old ! 

My   growing   talk   of  olden   times, 

My   growing   thirst   for   early   news, 
My   growing   apathy   to    rhymes, 

My   growing   love   of  easy   shoes, 
My   growing   hate   of  crowds   and   noise, 

My   growing   fear   of  taking   cold, 
All   whisper   in   the   plainest    voice, 

I'm   growing   old ! 
3 


34  I'M    GROWING   OLD. 

I'm   growing   fonder   of  my   staff; 

I'm   growing   dimmer   in   the    eyes; 
I'm   growing   fainter   in   my   laugh ; 

I'm   growing   deeper   in   my    sighs ; 
I'm   growing   careless   of  my   dress ; 

I'm   growing  frugal   of  my   gold ; 
I'm   growing   wise  ;   I'm   growing  —  yes  - 
I'm   growing   old ! 

I   see   it   in   my   changing   taste ; 

I   see   it   in   my  changing   hair ; 
I   see   it   in   my   growing   waist ; 

I   see  it   in   my  growing   heir ; 
A   thousand   signs   proclaim   the   truth, 

As   plain   as   truth   was   ever   told, 
That   even  in  my   vaunted   youth, 

I'm   growing   old ! 

Ah   me  !  —  my   very   laurels   breathe 
The   tale   in   my   reluctant   ears, 

And   every   boon   the    Hours   bequeathe 
But   makes   me   debtor   to  the   Years ! 


I'M    GROWING   OLD.  35 

E'en    Flattery's   honeyed  words   declare 
The   secret   she   would   fain   withhold, 
And   tells   me   in   "  How   young   you   are ! " 
I'm   growing   old ! 

Thanks   for   the   years  !  —  whose   rapid   flight 
My   sombre   muse    too   sadly    sings ; 

Thanks   for   the   gleams   of  golden   light 
That   tint   the   darkness   of  their   wings  ; 

The   light   that   beams   from   out   the   sky, 
Those   Heavenly   mansions   to   unfold 

Where   all   are   blest,   and   none   may   sigh, 
'*  I'm   growing   old  !  " 


SPES  EST  VAXES. 

THERE   is   a   saying   of  the   ancient   sages : 

No   noble   human   thought, 
However   buried   in   the   dust   of  ages, 

Can   ever   come   to   nought. 

With   kindred   faith,   that   knows    no   base   dejection, 

Beyond   the   sages'   scope 
I   see,   afar,   the   final   resurrection 

Of  every   glorious   hope. 

I   see,   as   parcel   of  a   new   creation, 

The   beatific   hour 
When   every   bud   of  lofty   aspiration 

Shall   blossom   into   flower. 

We   are   not   mocked ;   it    was   not   in    derision 
God   made   our   spirits   free ; 


SPES    EST    VATES.  87 

The   poet's   dreams   are   but   the   dim   prevision 
Of  blessings   that   shall   be,  — 

When    they   who   lovingly   have   hoped    and    trusted, 

Despite   some   transient   fears, 
Shall   see   Life's  jarring   elements   adjusted, 

And   rounded   into   spheres  ! 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

i. 
A   YOUTH   would   marry   a   maiden, 

For   fair   and   fond    was    she ; 
But   she   was   rich,   and   he   was    poor, 
And   so   it   might   not   be. 

A  lady   never   could  wear,  — 

Her   mother   held  it  firm,  — 
A  gown   that   came   of  an   India  plant. 

Instead  of  an   India   worm !  — 
And   so   the    cruel   word   was    spoken ; 
And   so   it   was   two   hearts   were   broken. 

n. 
A   youth   would   marry    a   maiden, 

For   fair   and   fond   was    she ; 
But   he   was   high   and   she   was   low, 

And   so   it   might   not   be. 


THE   WAY    OF   THE    WORLD.  39 

A   man   ivho   had  worn    a   spur, 

In   ancient   battle   won, 
Had  sent   it   down   with  great   renown, 

To  goad  his  future  son  !  — 
And  so  the  cruel  word  was  spoken ; 
And  so  it  was  two  hearts  were  broken. 

in. 

*A   youth    would   marry   a   maiden, 

For   fair   and   fond   was    she ; 
But   their   sires   disputed   about   the   Mas?, 
And   so   it   might   not   be. 

A   couple   of  ivicked  Kings, 

Three   hundred  years   agone, 
Had  played  at   a   royal  game   of  chess, 

And   the  church  had  been   a  pawn !  — • 
And   so   the   cruel   word   was   spoken ; 
And   so   it   was   two   hearts   were   broken. 


THE  HEAD  AND  THE  HEART. 

THE   head   is    stately,   calm   and   wise, 

And   bears   a   princely   part ; 
And   down   below   in    secret    lies 

The   warm,   impulsive   heart. 

The   lordly   head   that   sits   above, 

The   heart   that   beats  below, 
Their   several   office   plainly   prove, 

Their   true   relation   show. 

The   head   erect,   serene   and   cool, 

Endowed   with   Reason's   art, 
Was   set    aloft   to   guide   and   rule 

The   throbbing,    wayward   heart. 

And   from  the   head,   as   from    the    higher, 
Comes   every   glorious   thought ; 


THE  HEAD  AND  THE  HEART.        41 

And   in   the   heart's   transforming   fire 
All   noble   deeds   are   wrought. 

Yet   each   is   best   when   both   unite 

To   make    the   man   complete ; 
What    were   the   heat   without   the   light  ? 

The   light,   without   the   heat? 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN. 

THERE'S   a   castle   in    Spain,   very   charming   to   see, 
Though   built   without   money   or   toil ; 

Of  this   handsome   estate   I   am   owner   in   fee, 
And   paramount   lord    of  the    soil; 

And   oft   as   I   may   I'm   accustomed   to   go 

And   live,   like   a   king,   in   my    Spanish    Chateau ! 

There's    a    dame    most    bewitchingly   rounded    and 

ripe, 

Whose   wishes   are   never   absurd ; 
Who   doesn't    object   to   my   smoking   a   pipe, 

Nor   insist    on    the   ultimate   word ; 
In   short,   she 's    the   pink   of  perfection,    you   know  ; 
And   she   lives,   like   a   queen,   in   my   Spanish    Cha 
teau  ! 

I've   a   family   too;   the   delightfullest  girls, 
And   a   bevy   of  beautiful   boys ; 


MY   CASTLE   IN   SPAIN.  43 

All   quite    the   reverse   of  those  juvenile   churls 

Whose    pleasure   is   mischief  and   noise ; 
No    modern    Cornelia   might   venture   to    show 
Such  jewels   as   those   in   my    Spanish    Chateau ! 

I  have  servants  who  seek  their  contentment  in  mine, 
And   always   mind   what   they   are   at ; 

Who   never   embezzle   the   sugar   and   wine, 
And   slander   the   innocent   cat ; 

Neither   saucy,   nor   careless,   nor   stupidly   slow, 

Are   the   servants   who   wait   in   my    Spanish    Cha 
teau ! 

I   have   pleasant   companions ;   most   affable   folk ; 

And   each   with   the   heart   of  a   brother ; 
Keen   wits    who   enjoy   an   antagonist's  joke ; 

And   beauties    who  're   fond   of  each   other ; 
Such   people,   indeed,  as   you   never   may  know, 
Unless   you   should   come   to   my    Spanish    Chateau ! 

I    have   friends,    whose   commission    for   wearing   the 

name, 
In   kindness    unfailing,    is   shown ; 


44  MY    CASTLE   IN    SPAIN. 

Who   pay   to   another   the   duty    they   claim, 

And   deem    his   successes   their   own ; 
Who  joy   in   his   gladness,   and   weep   at   his   woe; 
You  '11    find    them    (where   else  ?)    in    my    Spanish 
Chateau  ! 

"  0  si   sic   semper ! "   I   oftentimes   say, 
(Though   'tis   idle,    I   know,   to   complain,) 

To   think   that   again    I   must   force   me   away 
From   rny   beautiful   castle   in    Spain ! 

Ah !    would   that   my   stars   had   determined   it   so 

I   might   live   the   year   round   in   my   Spanish    Cha 
teau  ! 


A   REFLECTIVE  RETROSPECT. 

'Tis    twenty   years,   and   something   more, 

Since,   all   atliirst   for   useful   knowledge, 
I   took   some   draughts   of  classic   lore, 

Drtiwn,   very   mild,   at   rd    College ; 

Yet  I  remember   all   that   one 

Could   wish    to   hold   in   recollection ; 
The   boys,    the  joys,   the   noise,   the   fun ; 

But  not   a   single    Conic    Section. 

I   recollect   those   harsh   affairs, 

The  morning  bells  that  gave  us  panics, 
I  recollect  the  formal  prayers, 

That  seemed  like  lessons  in  Mechanics ; 
I  recollect  the  drowsy  way 

In  which  the  students  listened  to  them, 
As  clearly,  in  my  wig,  to-day, 

As  when,  a   boy,  I  slumbered    through   them. 


46         A  REFLECTIVE  RETROSPECT. 

I   recollect   the    tutors   all 

As   freshly   now,   if  I   may   say    so, 
As   any   chapter   I   recall 

In    Homer   or   Ovidius   Naso. 
I   recollect,   extremely   well, 

"  Old   Hugh,"   the   mildest   of  fanatics ; 
I   well   remember   Matthew   Bell, 

But   very   faintly,    Mathematics. 

I   recollect   the   prizes   paid 

For   lessons   fathomed   to   the   bottom  ; 
(Alas,   that   pencil-marks   should   fade !) 

I   recollect   the   chaps   who   got   'em  — 
The   fc'ght   equestrians   who   soared 

O'er   every   passage   reckoned   stony ; 
And   took   the   chalks,  —  but   never   scored 

A   single    honor   to   the   pony ! 

Ah   me !  —  what  changes   Time   has  wrought, 
And    how   predictions    have   miscarried !  — 

A   few   have   reached   the   goal   they   sought, 
And   some  are  dead,  and   some   are  married ; 


A   REFLECTIVE   RETROSPECT.  47 

And   some   in   city  journals    war ; 

And   some   as   politicians   bicker ; 
And   some   are   pleading   at   the   bar ; 

For  jury-verdicts,   or   for   liquor ! 

And   some   on    Trade   and    Commerce  wait ; 

And   some  in   schools   with   dunces   battle ; 
And   some   the   gospel   propagate ; 

Anti   some   the    choicest   breeds   of  cattle ; 
And   some   are   living   at    their   ease ; 

And  some  were  wrecked  in  "  the  revulsion ; " 
Some   serve   the    State   for   handsome   fees, 

And   one,   I   hear,   upon   compulsion ! 

LAMONT,   who,   in   his   college   days, 

Thought   e'en   a   cross   a   moral   scandal, 
Has   left   his    Puritanic   ways, 

And   worships   now   with   bell   and   candle ; 
And   MANN,   who   mourned   the   negro's   fate, 

And   held   the   slave   as   most   unlucky, 
Now   holds   him,   at   the   market   rate, 

On   a   plantation   in    Kentucky ! 


48  A   REFLECTIVE   RETROSPECT. 

TOM   KNOX,   who   swore    in   such   a   tone 

It   fairly   might   be   doubted    whether 
It   really   was   himself  alone, 

Or   Knox   and   Erebus    together,  — 
Has   grown   a   very   altered   man, 

And,    changing   oaths    for   mild    entreaty, 
Now   recommends   the    Christian   plan 

To   savages   in   Otaheite ! 

Alas,   for   young   ambition's    vow, 

How    envious   Fate   may   overthrow   it !  — 
Poor   HARVEY   is   in    Congress   now, 

Who   struggled   long   to   be   a   poet; 
SMITH   carves    (quite   well)    memorial   stones, 

Who   tried   in   vain   to   make   the   law    go ; 
HALL    deals   in   hides ;   and   "  Pious   Jones " 

Is   dealing   faro  in    Chicago ! 

And,   sadder   still,   the   brilliant   HAYS, 
Once   honest,   manly,    and   ambitious, 

Has   taken   latterly   to   ways, 

Extremely   profligate   and    vicious ; 


A   REFLECTIVE   RETROSPECT.  49 

By    slow   degrees  —  I    can't   tell   how  — 
He's   reached   at   last   the   very   groundsel, 

And   in   New   York   he   figures    now, 
A   member   of  the    Common    Council ! 


"DO   YOU   THINK   HE   IS  MARRIED? 

MADAM,  —  you   are   very   pressing, 
And   I    can't   decline   the    task  ; 

With   the   slightest   gift   of  guessing, 
You    would   scarcely  need   to   ask ! 

Don't   you   see   a   hint   of  marriage 

In   his   sober-sided   face? 
In   his   rather   careless    carriage, 

And   extremely   rapid   pace  ? 

If  he 's   not   committed   treason, 
Or   some   wicked   action   done, 

Can   you    see   the   faintest   reason 
Why   a   bachelor   should   run  ? 

Why   should   he   be    in   a   flurry? 
But   a   loving   wife    to   greet, 


"  DO   YOU   THINK   HE   IS   MARRIED  ?  "  51 

Is   a    circumstance   to   hurry 
The   most   dignified   of  feet ! 

When   afar   the   man   has    spied   her, 

If  the   grateful,    happy   elf 
Does    not   haste   to   be   beside   her, 

He   must   be   beside   himself! 
I 

It   is   but   a   trifle,  may   be  — 
But   observe .  his    practised   tone, 

When   he   calms   your   stormy   baby, 
Just   as   if  it   were   his    own  ! 

Do   you   think   a   certain   meekness 
You   have    mentioned   in   his    looks, 

Is    a   chronic   optic   weakness 

That   has    come    of  reading   books  ? 

Did   you    ever   see   his    vision 

Peering   underneath   a   hood> 
Save   enough    for    recognition, 

As   a   civil   person   should ! 


52  "  DO   YOU   THINK   HE   IS   MARRIED  ?  " 

Could   a    Capuchin   be   colder 
When    he   glances,   as   he   must, 

At   a   finely-rounded   shoulder, 
Or   a   proudly-swelling  bust? 

Madam  !  —  think   of  every   feature, 
Then   deny  it,   if  you    can, 

He's   a   fond,    connubial   creature, 
And   a   very   married   man ! 


EARLY  RISING. 

"  GOD    bless   the   man   who   first   invented   sleep 
So    Sancho    Panza   said,   and   so   say    I : 

And*  bless   him,   also,   that   he   didn't   keep 
His   great   discovery   to   himself;   nor   try 

To   make   it,  —  as    the   lucky  fellow  might, — 

A   close   monopoly   by   patent   right ! 


Yes  —  bless   the   man   who   first   invented 
(I   really    can't    avoid   the   iteration ;) 

But   blast   the   man   with   curses   loud   and   deep, 
Whate  'er   the   rascal's   name,   or   age,   or   station, 

Who   first   invented,   and   went   round   advising, 

That    artificial    cut-off — Early    Rising! 

"  Rise   with   the   lark,   and   with   the   lark   to   bed," 
Observes    some   solemn   sentimental   owl ; 

Maxims   like   these   are   very   cheaply   said ; 
But,    ere   you   make   yourself  a   fool   or   fowl, 


54  EARLY   KISING. 

Pray,  just   inquire   about   his   rise    and   fall, 
And   whether   larks    have    any   beds   at   all ! 

"The   time   for   honest   folks   to   be   a   bed" 
Is   in    the  morning,  if  I   reason   right ; 

And   he    who   cannot   keep   his   precious    head 
Upon   his   pillow   till   it's   fairly   light, 

And    so    enjoy    his    forty   morning   winks, 

Is   up    to   knavery ;   or   else  —  he    drinks  ! 

Thomson,   who   sung   about   the    "  Seasons,"   said 
It    was   a   glorious   thing   to   rise   in   season ; 

But   then   he   said   it  —  lying  —  in   his   bed, 
At   ten   o'clock   A.   M.,  —  the   very   reason 

He   wrote   so   charmingly.     The   simple   fact   is, 

His   preaching   wasn't   sanctioned   by   his   practice. 

'Tis,   doubtless,   well   to   be   sometimes   awake,  — 
Awake   to   duty,    and   awake   to   truth, — 

But   when,    alas !    a   nice   review    we   take 

Of  our    best   deeds    and    days,   we   find,   in   sooth, 

The   hours   that   leave   the   slightest   cause   to    weep 

Are   those   we   passed   in   childhood   or   asleep ! 


EARLY    RISIXG.  55 

'Tis   beautiful   to   leave   the    world   awhile 
For   the   soft   visions   of  the   gentle   night ; 

And   free,   at   last,   from   mortal   care   or   guile, 
To   live   as   only   in   the   angels'   sight, 

In   sleep's   sweet   realm   so   cosily   shut   in, 

Where,    at    the    worst,    we    only    dream    of  sin ! 
I 

So,   let   us    sleep,   and   give   the   Maker   praise. 

I   like   the   lad    who,   when   his   father   thought 
To   clip   his   morning   nap   by   hackneyed    phrase 

Of  vagrant   worm    by    early    songster    caught, 
Cried,   "  Served   him   right !  —  it 's   not   at   all   sur 
prising  ; 
The    worm   was    punished,    sir,   for   early   rising ! " 


IDEAL   AND   EEAL. 

IDEAL. 

SOME   years   ago,   when   I   was   young, 

And   Mrs.    Jones    was   Miss    Delancy ; 
When   wedlock's   canopy   was   hung 

With   curtains   from   the   loom    of  fancy ; 
I   used   to   paint   my   future   life 

With    most   poetical   precision,  — 
My   special   wonder   of  a   wife ; 

My   happy    days ;   my   nights    Elysian. 

I   saw   a   lady,   rather   small, 

(A    JUNO    was   my   strict   abhorrence,) 
With   flaxen   hair,    contrived   to   fall 

In   careless   ringlets,    a   la   Lawrence ; 
A   blonde   complexion ;    eyes   that   drew 

From  autumn  clouds   their  azure  brightness ; 
The   foot   of  Venus ;   arms    whose   hue 

Was   perfect   in   its   milky   whiteness ! 


IDEAL    AND    REAL.  57 

I   saw   a   party,    quite    select,  — 

There   might   have    been   a   baker's    dozen ; 
A   parson,   of  the   ruling    sect ; 

A   bridemaid,   and   a   city   cousin ; 
A   formal   speech   to   me   and   mine, 

(Its   meaning   I   could   scarce    discover;) 
A   taste   of  cake ;   a   sip    of  wine ; 

Some   kissing  —  and   the   scene   was   over ! 

I   saw   a   baby  —  one  —  no   more  ; 

A   cherub   pictured,    rather   faintly, 
Beside   a   pallid   dame    who    wore 

A   countenance    extremely    saintly. 
I   saw  —  but   nothing   could   I   hear, 

Except   the   softest   prattle,    may   be, 
The   merest   breath   upon   the   ear  — 

So   quiet   was   that   blessed   baby ! 

REAL. 
I   see   a   woman,   rather   tall, 

And   yet,    I   own,    a   comely   lady ; 
Complexion  —  such   as    I   must    call 

(To   be   exact)    a   little    shady ; 


58  IDEAL   AND    REAL. 

A   hand   not   handsome,    yet   confest 
A    generous    one    for   love   or    pitj ; 

A   nimble   foot,   and  —  neatly   dressed 
In    No.    5  —  extremely   pretty  ! 

I    see    a   group   of  boys   and   girls 

Assembled   round    the   knee   paternal; 
With    ruddy    cheeks    and    tangled    curls, 

And   manners   not   at   all    supernal. 
And   one   has    reached   a   manly    size ; 

And   one   aspires   to    woman's    stature; 
And   one   is    quite   a   recent   prize, 

And   all   abound   in   human   nature ! 

The   boys   are   hard   to   keep   in   trim ; 

The    girls    are    often    rather    trying ; 
And   baby  —  like   the    cherubim  — 

Seems   very   fond   of  steady   crying ! 
And    yet   the    precious   little   one, 

His    mother's   dear,    despotic   master, 
Is   worth   a   thousand   babies    done 

In   Parian   or   in   alabaster ! 


IDEAL   AND   REAL.  59 

And   oft   that   stately   dame   and   I, 

"Wlien   laughing   o'er   our   early   dreaming, 
And   marking,    as    the    years    go    by, 

How   idle   was   our   youthful   scheming,  — 
Confess   the   wiser   Power   that   knew 

How   Duty   every  joy    enhances, 
And   gave   us   blessings   rich   and   true, 

And   better   far   than   all   our   fancies ! 


'-    •     ..    -: 


HOW  THE  MONEY   GOES. 

How   goes   the    Money  ?  —  Well, 

I  'm   sure   it   isn  't   hard    to   tell ; 

It   goes   for   rent,   and   water-rates, 

For   bread   and   butter,    coal   and   grates, 

Hats,  caps,   and   carpets,   hoops   and   hose, 

And   that 's   the   way    the   Money   goes ! 

How   goes   the   Money  ?  —  Nay, 
Don't   everybody   know   the    way  ? 
It   goes   for   bonnets,    coats,   and   capes, 
Silks,   satins,   muslins,    velvets,    crapes, 
Shawls,   ribbons,   furs,   and   furbelows,  — 
And   that 's   the   way   the   Money   goes ! 

How   goes   the   Money  ?  —  Sure, 

I   wish   the   ways    were   something   fewer ; 

It   goes   for    wages,   taxes,   debts ; 

It   goes   for   presents,   goes   for   bets, 


HOW   THE   MONEY    GOES.  61 

For   paint,  pommade,   and   eau    de   rose,  — 
And   that 's   the   way   the   Money   goes ! 

How   goes   the   Money?  —  Now, 

I  've   scarce   begun   to    mention   how ; 

It   goes   for   laces,   feathers,   rings, 

Toys,   dolls  —  and   other   baby-things, 

Whips,  whistles,  candies,  bells,  and   bows,  — 

And   that 's   the   way   the   Money   goes ! 

How   goes   the   Money  ?  —  Come, 

I   know    it   doesn't    go   for   rum ; 

It   goes   for   schools   and    Sabbath    chimes, 

It   goes   for   charity  —  sometimes  ; 

For   missions,   and   such   things   as    those, — 

And   that 's   the   way   the   Money   goes ! 

How   goes   the   Money  ?  —  There  ! 
I  'm   out   of  patience,   I   declare ; 
It   goes   for   plays,    and   diamond-pins, 
For   public   alms,    and    private    sins, 
For   hollow   shams,   and   silly   shows,  — 
And   that 's   the   way   the   Money   goes ! 


TALE   OF   A  DOG. 

IN    TWO    PARTS. 

PART   FIRST. 
I. 

"  CURSE   on   all   curs ! "   I   heard   a   cynic   cry ; 

A   wider   malediction   than   he   thought,  — 
For   what 's   a   cynic  ?  —  Had   he   cast   his    eye 

Within    his    dictionary,   he   had    caught 
This   much   of  learning,  —  the   untutored   elf,  — 
That   he,    unwittingly,   had   cursed   himself! 

ii. 
"  Beware   of  dogs,"    the   great   Apostle    writes ; 

A   rather   brief  and   sharp   philippic   sent 
To    the    Philippians.     The    paragraph   invites 

Some   little   question    as   to   its   intent, 
Among   the   best   expositors ;   but   then 
I  find  they  all  agree  that  "  dogs "  meant  men ! 


TALE    OF   A    DOG.  63 

III. 
Beware   of  men !    a   moralist   might   say, 

And  women   too ;   't  were  but   a   prudent   hint, 
Well   worth   observing   in   a   general   way, 

But   having   surely  no   conclusion    in 't, 
(As   saucy   satirists   are   wont   to   rail,) 
All   men   are   faithless,   and   all   women   frail. 

IV. 

And   so   of  dogs    't  were    wrong   to    dogmatize 

Without   discrimination    or    degree ; 
For   one   may   see,   with   half  a   pair   of  eyes, 

That   they   have   characters   as   well   as   we  : 
I   hate   the   rascal   who   can   walk   the    street 
Caning   all   canines   he   may    chance   to   meet. 

v. 

I   had   a   dog   that   was    not   all   a   dog, 

For   in    his    nature   there   was   something   human ; 

Wisely   he   looked   as   any   pedagogue ; 

Loved   funerals    and    weddings,    like    a    woman; 

With    this    (still    human)    weakness,    I    confess, 

Of  always  judging   people   by   their   dress. 


64  TALE   OF   A   DOG. 

VI. 
He   hated   beggars,   it   was   very   clear, 

And  oft  was    seen   to  drive   them   from   the  door ; 
But   that   was    education ;  —  for   a   year, 

Ere   yet   his   puppyhood   wast  fairly   o  'er, 
He   lived   with   a    Philanthropist,   and   caught 
His   practices ;   the   precepts    he   forgot ! 

VII. 

"Which  was  a  pity ;  yet  the  dog,  I  grant, 
Led,  on  the  whole,  a  very  worthy  life. 

To  teach  you  industry,  "  Go  to  the  ant, " 
(I  mean  the  insect,  not  your  uncle's  wife ;) 

But  —  though   the   counsel   sounds    a   little   rude  — 

Go   to   the   dogs,   for  love  and   gratitude. 


PART    SECOND. 
VIII. 

"  Throw   physic   to   the   dogs,"   the    poet   cries ; 

A   downright   insult   to    the   canine   race ; 
There 's   not   a   puppy   but   is    far   too    wise 

To    put   a   pill   or   powder   in   his   face. 


TALE   OF   A   DOG.  65 

Perhaps   the   poet   merely   meant   to   say, 

That   physic,   thrown  to   dogs,   is   thrown   away  — 

IX. 

Which    (as   the   parson   said   about   the   dice) 

Is   the   best   throw   that   any   man   can    choose ; 

• 

Take,   if  you  're   ailing,   medical   advice,  — 

Minus   the   medicine  —  which,   of  course,   refuse. 
Drugging,   no   doubt,   occasioned    Homoeopathy, 

And   all   the   dripping   horrors   of  Hydropathy. 

i 

x. 

At  all   events,   'tis   fitting   to   remark, 

Dogs  spurn  at  drugs ;  their  daily  bark  and  whip,!1 
Are   not   at   all   the   musty  wine    and   bark 

The   doctors   give   to   patients   in   decline ; 
And   yet   a   dog   who   felt   a   fracture's   smart 
Once   thanked   a   kind   chirurgeon   for   his   art. 

XI. 

I  've   heard   a   story,   and   believe   it   true, 

About    a   dog   that   chanced   to   break   his   leg ; 
His   master   set   it,   and   the   member   grew 
5 


66  TALE   OF   A   DOG. 

Once   more   a   sound   and   serviceable   peg ; 
And   how    d  'ye    think   the    happy   dog   exprest 
The   grateful   feelings   of  his   glowing   breast  ?  — 

XII. 

'Twas   not   in   words ;   the   customary   pay 
Of  human   debtors   for   a   friendly  act ; 

For   dogs   their   thoughts   can   neither   sing   nor   say, 
E  'en    in   "  dog-latin,"    which    (a    curious   fact) 

Is   spoken   only,  —  as   a   classic  grace,  — 

By   grave    Professors   of  the   human   race ! 

XIII. 

No,   't  was   in   deed ;   the   very  briefest   tail 
Declared   his   deep   emotions   at   his   cure; 

Short,    but   significant;  —  one   could   not   fail, 
From   the   mere   wagging   of  his   cynosure 

("  Surgens   e  puppi "),    and   his   ears   agog, 

To  'see   the   fellow   was   a   grateful   dog ! 

XIV. 

One   day — still   mindful   of  his   late   disaster  — 
He   wandered   off  the   village   to    explore ; 


TALE   OF   A   DOG.  67 

And   brought   another   dog   unto   his    master, 
Lame   of  a   leg,   as   he   had   been   before ; 
As  who  should  say — "you  see!  —  the  dog  is  lame, — 
You   doctored  me,   pray,   doctor   him   the   same ! " 

XV. 

So   runs   the   story,   and   you   have   it   cheap  — 
Dog-cheap,   as  doubtless  such  a  tale  should  be; 

The   moral,  surely,  isn't   hard   to   reap :  — 
Be   prompt   to   listen   unto   mercy's   plea ; 

The    good   you   get,    diffuse ;    it   will   not   hurt   you 

E'en   from   a   dog   to   learn   a    Christian    virtue ! 


LITTLE  JERRY,   THE  MILLER. 

A    BALLAD. 

BENEATH   the  hill  you   may   see   the   mill, 
Of  wasting   wood   and   crumbling   stone ; 

The   wheel   is   dripping   and   clattering   still, 
But  JERRY,   the   miller,  is  dead   and   gone. 

Year  after  year,   early  and  late, 

Alike   in   summer   and   winter   weather, 

He   pecked   the   stones   and   calked  the   gate, 
And   mill   and   miller   grew   old    together. 

"  Little   Jerry !  "  —  'twas   all   the   same,  — 
They   loved   him   well   who   called   him   so ; 

And  whether  he'd   ever   another   name, 
Nobody   ever   seemed   to  know. 

'Twas   "  Little   Jerry,   come   grind   my   rye ; " 
And   "  Little   Jerry,  come   grind   my  wheat ; " 


69 


And   "  Little   Jerry "    was   still   the   cry, 
From   matron   bold   and   maiden   sweet. 

'Twas   "  Little   Jerry "   on   every   tongue, 
And   so   the   simple   truth   was   told ; 

For   Jerry   was   little   when   he   was   young, 
And  Jerry   was   little   when   he   was   old. 

But   what   in   size   he   chanced   to   lack, 
That  Jerry   made   up   in   being   strong ; 

I've   seen   a   sack   upon   his   back 

As  thick   as   the   miller,   and   quite    as   long. 

Always   busy,   and   always   merry, 

Always   doing   his   very   best, 
A   notable   wag   was   Little   Jerry, 

Who   uttered   well   his   standing  jest. 

How  Jerry  lived  is  known  to  fame, 

But  how  he  died  there 's  none  may  know ; 

One  autumn  day  the  rumor  came  — 
"  The  brook  and  Jerry  are  very  low." 


70  LITTLE   JERRY,   THE   MILLER. 

And   then   'twas    whispered,   mournfully, 
The   leech   had   come,   and   he   was   dead ; 

And   all   the   neighbors   flocked   to   see ;  — 
"  Poor   Little   Jerry ! "   was   all   they   said. 

They   laid   him   in   his   earthy   bed  — 
His   miller's    coat   his   only   shroud  — 

"  Dust   to   dust,!'    the   parson   said, 
And   all   the   people   wept   aloud. 

For   he   had   shunned   the   deadly   sin, 

And   not   a   grain   of  over-toll 
Had   ever   dropped   into   his   bin, 

To  weigh   upon  his   parting   soul. 

Beneath   the   hill   there   stands   the   mill, 
Of  wasting   wood   and   crumbling   stone ; 

The   wheel   is   dripping   and   clattering   still, 
But   JERRY,   the   miller,   is   dead   and   gone. 


HOW   CYRUS  LAID  THE   CABLE. 

A    BALLAD. 

COME,   listen   all   unto   my   song; 

It  is   no   silly   fable ; 
'Tis   all   about   the   mighty   cord 

They   call  the   Atlantic   Cable. 

Bold    Cyrus   Field   he   said,   says   he, 

I   have   a   pretty   notion 
That   I   can   run   a   telegraph 

Across'  the   Atlantic   Ocean. 

Then   all   the   people   laughed,   and   said, 
They  'd   like   to   see   him    do   it ; 

He   might   get   half-seas-over,   but 
He   never   could   go   through    it ; 


72        HOW  CYRUS  LAID  THE  CABLE. 

To   carry   out   his   foolish   plan 

He   never   would   be   able ; 
He   might   as   well   go   hang   himself 

With   his   Atlantic    Cable! 

But    Cyrus   was   a   valiant   man, 

A  fellow   of  decision ; 
And   heeded   not   their   mocking   words, 

Their   laughter   and   derision. 

Twice    did   his   bravest   efforts   fail, 
And   yet   his   mind   was   stable ; 

He  wa'n't   the  man  to   break   his   heart 
Because   he   broke   his   cable. 

"  Once  more,  my  gallant   boys  ! "   he  cried  ; 

"  Three   times  !  —  you   know   the.  fable,  — 
(I  '11   make   it   thirty"   muttered   he, 

"But   I   will   lay   the   cable!") 

Once   more   they   tried,  —  hurrah  !   hurrah  ! 
What  means   this   great   commotion  ? 


HOW  CYRUS  LAID  THE  CABLE.        73 

The   Lord   be   praised !   the   cable  's   laid 
Across   the   Atlantic   Ocean ! 

Loud   ring  the   bells  —  for,   flashing   through 

Six   hundred   leagues   of  water, 
Old   Mother   England's   benison 

Salutes   her   eldest   daughter ! 

O  'er   all   the   land   the   tidings   speed, 

And   soon,   in   every   nation, 
They  '11   hear   about   the   cable   with 

Profoundest   admiration  ! 

Now   long   live   James,   and   long  live   Vic, 

And   long   live   gallant    Cyrus ; 
And   may   his   courage,   faith,   and   zeal 

With   emulation   fire   us; 

And   may   we   honor   evermore 

The   manly,   bold,    and   stable  ; 
And   tell   our  sons,   to   make   them   brave, 

How    Cyrus   laid   the   cable ! 


THE  JOLLY  MARINER. 

A   BALLAD. 

IT   was   a  jolly   mariner 

As   ever   hove   a  log; 
He   wore   his   trousers    wide   and   free, 

And   always   ate   his   prog, 
And  blessed   his   eyes,   in   sailor-wise, 

And   never   shirked   his   grog. 

Up   spoke   this  jolly   mariner, 

Whilst   walking   up   and   down :  — 

"  The   briny   sea   has   pickled  me, 
And   done   me    very   brown ; 

But   here   I   goes,   in   these   here  clo'es, 
A-cruising   in   the   town  !  " 

The   first   of  all   the   curious   things 
That   chanced   his   eye   to   meet, 


THE   JOLLY  MAEINER.  75 

As   this   undaunted   mariner 

Went   sailing   up    the   street, 
Was,   tripping   with   a   little   cane, 

A   dandy   all   complete ! 

He   stopped,  —  that  jolly   mariner,  — 

And   eyed   the   stranger   well :  — 
"What  that   may   be,"   he   said,   says   he, 

"  Is   more   than   I   can   tell ; 
But   ne'er   before,   on   sea   or   shore, 

Was   such   a   heavy   swell ! " 

He   met   a   lady  in   her   hoops, 
And   thus   she   heard   him   hail :  — 

"Now  blow  me  tight!  —  but  there's  a  sight 
To   manage   in   a   gale ! 

I   never   saw   so   small   a   craft 
With   such   a   spread   o'   sail ! 

"  Observe   the   craft   before   and   aft,  — 

She  'd   make   a   pretty   prize !  " 
And   then   in   that   improper    way 

He   spoke   about   his    eyes, 


76  THE   JOLLY   MARINER. 

That    mariners   are   wont   to   use 
In   anger   or   surprise. 

He   saw   a   plumber   on   a   roof, 
Who  made   a   mighty   din :  — 

"  Shipmate,   ahoy ! "   the   rover   cried, 
"  It  makes   a   sailor   grin 

To   see   you    copper-bottoming 
Your   upper-decks   with   tin ! " 

He   met   a   yellow-bearded   man, 
i 

And  asked   about   the   way ; 
But   not   a   word   could   he   make   out 

Of  what   the   chap   would   say, 
Unless   he  meant   to   call   him   names, 

By   screaming,   "  Nix   furstay  !  " 

Up   spoke   this  jolly   mariner, 
And  to   the   man   said   he, 

"  I   have  n't   sailed   these   thirty   years 
Upon   the   stormy   sea, 

To   bear  the   shame   of  such   a   name 
As   I   have   heard   from   thee ! 


THE   JOLLY   MARINER.  77 

So   take   thou   that !  "  —  and   laid   him   flat ; 

But  soon  the  man  arose, 
And   beat  the  jolly   mariner 

Across   his  jolly   nose, 
Till   he   was   fain,   from   very   pain, 

To   yield   him   to   the   blows. 

'Twas   then   this  jolly   mariner, 

A   wretched  jolly   tar, 
Wished   he   was   in   a  jolly-boat 

Upon  the   sea  afar, 
Or  riding   fast,   before   the   blast, 

Upon   a  single   spar ! 

'Twas   then   this  jolly   mariner 

Returned   unto   his   ship, 
And   told   unto   the   wondering   crew 

The   story   of  his   trip, 
With   many   oaths   and   curses,   too, 

Upon   his  wicked   lip  !  — 

As   hoping  —  so   this   mariner 
In   fearful   words   harangued  — 


78  THE   JOLLY   MARINER. 

His   timbers   might   be    shivered,   and 
His   le  'ward   scuppers   danged, 

(A   double   curse,    and    vastly   worse 
Than   being   shot   or   hanged !) 

If  ever   he  —  and   here   again 
A   dreadful   oath   he   swore  — 

If  ever   he,    except   at   sea, 
Spoke   any   stranger   more, 

Or   like   a   son   of — something  —  went 
A-cruising   on   the   shore ! 


YE  TAILYOR-MAN. 

A    CONTEMPLATIVE   BALLAD. 

RIGHT  jollie   is   ye   tally or-man, 

As   annie   man   may  be ; 
And   all   ye   daye   upon   ye   benche 

He   worketh   merrilie. 

And   oft   ye   while   in   pleasante   wise 
He   coileth   up   his   lymbes, 

He   singeth   songs   ye   like   whereof 
Are   not  in   Watts   his   hymns. 

And  yet   he   toileth   all   ye   while 
His   merrie   catches   rolle; 

As   true   unto   ye   needle   as 
Ye  needle   to  ye  pole. 


80  YE   TAILYOR-MAN. 

What   cares   ye   valiant   tailyor-man 
For   all  ye   cowarde   feares  ? 

Against   ye   scissors   of  ye    Fates 
He   pointes   his   mightie    sheares. 

He   heedeth   not   ye   anciente  jests 
That   witlesse   sinners    use ; 

What   feareth  ye   bolde   tailyor-man 
Ye   hissinge   of  a   goose? 

He   pulleth   at   ye   busie   threade, 
To  feede   his   lovinge   wife 

And   eke   his   childe ;   for   unto   them 
It   is   ye   threade   of  life. 

He  cutteth  well  ye  riche   man's   coate, 
And   with   unseemlie   pride 

He   sees   ye   little   waistcoate   in 
Ye   cabbage   bye   his   side. 

Meanwhile   ye   tailyor-man   his    wife, 
To   labor   nothinge   loth, 


YE    TAILYOR-MAN.  81 

Sits   bye   with   readie    hande   to   baste 
Ye   urchin   and   ye   cloth. 

Full   happie   is   ye   tailyor-man, 

Yet    is   he   often   tried, 
Lest    he,   from   fullnesse    of  ye    dimes, 

Waxe   wanton   in   his   pride. 

Full   happie   is   ye   tailyor-man, 

And   yet   he   hath   a   foe, 
A   cunninge    enemie   that   none 

So   well   as   tailyors   knowe. 

It   is   ye   slipperie   customer 

Who   goes   his   wicked   wayes, 
And   weares   ye   honest   tailyor's   coate, 

But   never,   never   paves ! 


-fVVM^ 


, 


.Library. 


TOWN  AND   COUNTRY. 

AN    ECLOGUE. 
CLOVERTOP. 

I'VE   thought,   my   Cousin,   it's   extremely   queer 
That  you,   who  love  to  spend   your   August  here, 
Don't  bring,  at  once,  your  wife  and  children  down, 
And   quit,   for   good,   the   noisy,   dusty   town. 

SHILLINGSIDE. 

Ah !   simple   swain,   this   sort   of  life   may   do 
For   such   a   verdant    Clovertop   as   you, 
Content   to   vegetate   in   summer   air, 
And   hibernate   in   winter  —  like   a   bear ! 

CLOVERTOP. 

Here   we   have   butter   pure   as   virgin   gold, 
And   milk   from   cows   that   can   a   tail   unfold 
With  bovine  pride;   and  new-laid  eggs,  whose  praise 
Is   sung  by   pullets   with   their   morning   lays ; 


TOWN   AND    COUNTRY.  83 

Trout   from   the   brook ;   good    water   from   the  well ; 
And    other   blessings    more   than   I   can   tell ! 

SHILLINGSIDE. 

There,    simple   rustic,    we   have   nightly   plays, 
And   operatic   music  —  charming    ways 
Of  spending   time   and   money  —  lots   of  fun ; 
The    Central   Park  —  whene'er   they   get   it   done  ; 
Barnum's   Museum,   full   of  things    erratic, 
Terrene,   amphibious,   airy,   and   aquatic ! 

CL  OVERTOP. 

Here   we   have   rosy,   radiant,   romping  girls, 
With   lips   of  rubies,   and   with   teeth   of  pearls ; 
I   dare   not   mention   half  their   witching   charms; 
But,   ah !   the   roundness   of  their   milky   arms, 
And,   oh !    what   polished   shoulders   they   display, 
Bending   o'er   tubs   upon   a   washing-day ! 

SHILLINGSIDE. 

There   we   have   ladies   most   superbly   made 
(By   fine   artistes,   who   understand   their   trade), 
Who   dance   the    German,   flirt   a   graceful   fan, 


84  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

And   speak  such    French    as   no    Parisian    can ; 
Who  sing  much   louder  than  your  country  thrushes, 
And    wear    (thank    Phalon !)     far    more    brilliant 
blushes ! 

CLOVERTOP. 

Here,  boastful    Shilling,    we   have   flowery   walks, 
Where  you   may   stroll,   and   hold   delightful   talks, 
(No   saucy   placard   frowning   as   you   pass, 
"  Ten   dollars'   fine   for   walking   on   the   grass ! ") 
Dim-lighted   groves,    where   love's    delicious    words 
Are   breathed   to   music   of  melodious   birds. 

SHILLINGSIDE. 

There,   silly    Clover,   dashing   belles   we   meet, 
Sweeping   with   silken   robes   the   dusty   street ; 
May   gaze   into   their   faces   as   they   pass, 
Beneath   the    rays   of  dimly-burning   gas, 
Or,   standing   at   a   crossing   when   it   rains, 
May   see   some   pretty   ankles   for   our   pains. 

CLOVERTOP. 

Here  you   may   angle   for   the   speckled   trout, 


TOWN   AND    COUNTRY.  85 

Play   him   awhile,  with   gentle   hand,   about, 
Then,   like   a   sportsman,   pull   the   fellow   out! 

SHILLINGSIDE. 

There,   too,   is   fishing   quite   as   good,   I    ween, 
Where   careless,  gaping   gudgeons   oft   are   seen, 
Rich   as   yon   pasture,   and   almost   as   green ! 

CLOVERTOP. 

Here   you   may   &ee   the   meadow's   grassy   plain, 
Ripe,    luscious   fruits,    and   shocks    of  golden   grain ; 
And   view,   luxuriant   in   a   hundred   fields, 
The  gorgeous  wealth   that   bounteous   Nature  yields  1 

SHILLINGSIDE. 

There  you   may  see   Trade's  wondrous    strength   and 

pride, 

Where   merchant-navies   throng   on   every   side, 
And   view,   collected   in    Columbia's   mart, 
Alike   the   wealth   of  Nature   and   of  Art ! 

CLOVERTOP. 

Cease,   clamorous    cit !     I   love   these   quiet   nooks, 


86  TOWN   AND    COUNTRY. 

Where   one   may   sleep,   or   dawdle   over   books, 

Or,   if  he   wish   of  gentle    love   to   dream, 

May  sit   and   muse   by   yonder   babbling   stream  — 

SHILLINGSIDE. 

Dry   up   your   babbling   stream !   my    Clovertop  — 
You  're   getting   garrulous  ;   it 's   time   to   stop. 
I   love   the    city,    and   the    city's   smoke ; 
The   smell   of  gas ;   the   dust   of  coal   and   coke ; 
The   sound   of  bells ;   the   tramp   of  hurrying   feet ; 
The   sight   of  pigs   and    Paphians   in    the   street ; 
The  jostling   crowd ;   the    never-ceasing   noise 
Of  rattling   coaches,   and   vociferous   boys ; 
The   cry   of  "  Fire ! "   and   the    exciting   scene 
Of  heroes   running   with  their   mad   "  mersheen ; " 
Nay,   now   I   think   that   I   could    even   stand 
The   direful   din   of  Barnum's   brazen   band, 
So  much   I   long   to   see    the   town   again ! 
Good-bye !   I  'm   going   by   the   evening   train ! 
Don't   fail   to   call   whene'er  you   come   to   town, 
We  '11   do   the   city,   boy,   and   do   it   brown ; 
I  've   really   had   a   pleasant   visit   here, 
And   mean   to   come   again   another  year. 


MY  FAMILIAR. 
Ecce  iterum   Qrispinus  I 

I. 

AGAIN   I   hear   that   creaking   step !  — 

He  's   rapping   at   the   door  !  — 
Too   well   I   know   the   boding   sound 

That   ushers    in    a   bore. 
I   do   not   tremble   when   I   meet 

The   stoutest   of  my   foes, 
But   Heaven   defend   me   from    "he   friend 

Who   comes  —  but   never   goes  ! 

ii. 
He   drops   into   my   easy   chair, 

And   asks   about   the   news ; 
He   peers   into   my   manuscript, 

And   gives   his   candid   views ; 


88  MY   FAMILIAR. 

He   tells   where   he   likes   the   line, 
And   where   he 's   forced   to   grieve ; 

He   takes   the   strangest   liberties, — 
But  never   takes   his  leave ! 

in. 
He   reads   my   daily   paper   through, 

Before  I  've   seen  a  word ; 
He  scans   the   lyric    (that  I   wrote) 

And   thinks   it   quite   absurd ; 
He   calmly   smokes   my   last   cigar, 

And   coolly   asks   for   more ; 
He   opens   everything   he   sees, — 

Except   the   entry   door ' 

IV. 

He   talks   about   his   fragile   health, 
And   tells   me   of  the   pains 

He   suffers   from   a   score   of  ills 
Of  which   he   ne'er   complains ; 

And   how   he   struggled   once   with   death 
To  keep  the  fiend  at   bay ; 


MY   FAMILIAR.  89 

On   themes   like   those   away   he   goes  — 
But  never   goes   away! 

v. 

He   tells   me   of  the   carping   words 

Some   shallow   critic   wrote ; 
And   every   precious   paragraph 

Familiarly   can   quote  ; 
He   thinks   the   writer   did   me  wrong ; 

He  'd   like   to   run   him   through  ! 
He  says   a   thousand   pleasant   things  — 

But  never   says   "  Adieu  !  " 

YI. 
Whene'er  he  comes  —  that  dreadful  man  — 

.Disguise   it   as   I   may, 
I   know  that,   like   an  Autumn   rain, 

He  '11   last   throughout   the   day. 
In   vain   I   speak   of  urgent   tasks ; 

In   vain   I   scowl   and   pout ; 
A   frown   is   no   extinguisher  — 

It  does   not  put  him   out ! 


90  MY   FAMILIAR. 

VII. 
I   mean   to   take   the   knocker   off, 

Put   crape   upon   the   door, 
Or   hint   to   John   that   I   am   gone 

To   stay   a   month   or   more. 
I   do   not   tremble   when   I   meet 

The   stoutest   of  my   foes, 
But   Heaven  defend   me  from   the  friend 

Who   never,   never   goes ! 


HOW  THE  LAWYERS   GOT  A  PATRON   SAINT. 

A   LEGEND    OF    BRETAGNE. 

A   LAWYER   of  Brittany,   once   on   a   time, 
When   business   was    flagging   at   home, 

Was   sent   as   a   legate   to   Italy's   clime, 
To   confer   with   the   Father   at   Rome. 

And  what  was  the  message  the  minister  brought? 

To   the   Pope   he   preferred   a   complaint 
That   each   other   profession   a   Patron   had   got, 

While   the   Lawyers   had   never   a    Saint! 

"  Very   true,"   said   his    Holiness,  —  smiling   to   find 
An   attorney   so   civil   and   pleasant,  — 

"  But   my   very   last    Saint   is   already   assigned, 
And   I   can't   make   a   new   one   at   present. 

To   choose   from   the   Bar  it   were   fittest,   I   think; 
Perhaps  you've   a   man   in   your   eye"  — 


92     HOW   THE   LAWYERS    GOT   A    PATRON    SAINT. 

And   his    Holiness   here   gave   a   mischievous    wink 

To   a    Cardinal   sitting   near   by. 

• 
But   the   lawyer   replied,   in   a   lawyer-like    way, 

"  I   know   what   is   modest,   I   hope ; 
I    didn't   come   hither,   allow   me   to   say, 

To   proffer   advice   to   the   Pope ! " 

"Very  well,"    said   his  Holiness,  "then  we  will  do 
The   best   that   may   fairly   be   done ; 

It   don't   seem   exactly   the   thing,   it   is   true, 
That   the   Law   should   be    Saint-less   alone. 

To   treat   your   profession   as    well   as   I   can, 
And   leave   you   no   cause   of  complaint, 

I  propose,   as   the   only   quite   feasible   plan, 
To   give   you   a   second-hand    Saint. 

To   the   neighboring   church   you   will   presently   go, 

And   this   is    the   plan   I   advise :  — 
First,   say   a   few   aves  —  a   hundred   or   so  — 

Then,   carefully   bandage   your   eyes; 


HOW   THE   LAWYERS    GOT   A   PATRON    SAINT.     93 

Then    (saying   more   aves)    go   groping    around, 

And,   touching   one   object   alone, 
The    Saint   you    are   seeking   will   quickly   be   found, 

For   the   first   that   you    touch   is   your   own." 

The   lawyer   did   as   his   Holiness   said, 

"Without   an   omission   or   flaw ; 
Then,   taking   the  bandages   off  from   his   head, 

What   do   you   think   he   saw? 

There   was    St.  Michael    (figured   in   paint) 

Subduing   the    Father    of   Evil ; 
And  the  lawyer,  exclaiming    "  Be  thou  our    Saint ! " 

Was   touching  the   form   of  the    DEVIL  ! 


THE  KING  AND  THE   COTTAGER. 

A   PERSIAN    LEGEND. 
I. 

PRAY   list  unto   a  legend 

The   ancient   poets   tell ; 
'T  is   of  a   mighty   monarch 

In   Persia   once   did   dwell ; 
A   mighty  queer   old   monarch 

Who   ruled   his   kingdom   well. 

ii. 
"I   must   build   another   palace," 

Observed   this   mighty    King ; 
"  For   this   is   getting   shabby 

Along   the   southern   wing; 
And,   really,   for   a   monarch, 

It   is  n't   quite   the   thing. 


THE  KING  AND  THE  COTTAGER.       95 

HI. 

"  So   I   will   have   a   new   one, 

Although   I   greatly   fear, 
To   build   it  just   to   suit   me, 

Will   cost   me   rather   dear; 
And    I'd   choose,    God   wot,   another   spot, 

Much   finer   than   this    here." 

IV. 

So   he   travelled   o'er   his   kingdom 

A   proper   site   to   find, 
Where   he   might   build   a   palace 

Exactly   to   his   mind, 
Ah1    with   a   pleasant   prospect 

Before   it,   and   behind. 

v. 

Not   long   with   this    endeavor 

The   King   had   travelled   round, 
Ere,   to   his   royal   pleasure, 

A   charming   spot   he   found ; 
But   an   ancient   widow's    cabin 

Was   standing   on   the   ground. 


96       THE  KING  AND  THE  COTTAGER. 

VI. 

"  Ah,   here,"   exclaimed   the   monarch, 
Is  just   the   proper   spot, 

If  this   woman   would   allow   me 
To   remove   her   little    cot." 

But   the   beldam   answered   plainly, 
She   had   rather   he    would   not ! 

VII. 

"  Within   this   lonely   cottage, 
Great   Monarch,   I   was   born ; 

And   only   from   this   cottage 
By   Death   will   I   be   torn; 

So   spare   it,   in   your  justice, 
Or   spoil   it,   in   your   scorn ! " 

VIII. 

Then   all   the    courtiers   mocked   her, 
With   cruel   words   and  jeers :  — 

"  'T  is   plain   her   royal   master 
She   neither   loves   nor   fears ; 

We  would   knock   her   ugly   hovel 
About   her   ugly   ears ! 


THE   KING   AND   THE   COTTAGER.  97 

IX. 

"  When   ever   was    a   subject 

Who  might   the   King  withstand  ? 

Or   deem   his   spoken   pleasure 
As   less   than   his   command? 

Of  course,   he  '11   rout   the   beldam, 
And   confiscate   her   land !  " 

x. 

But,    to   their   deep   amazement, 

His   majesty   replied  :  — 
"  Good    woman  —  never   heed    them, 

The   King   is   on   your   side ; 
Your   cottage   is   your   castle, 

And   here   you   shall   abide. 

XI. 

To   raze   it   in   a   moment, 

The   power   is   mine,   I   grant; 
My   absolute    dominion 

A    hundred   poets    chant ; 
For   being   Khan   of  Persia, 

There  's   nothing   that   I   can't ! " 
7 


98  THE   KING   AND    THE    COTTAGER. 

XII. 
('T  was   in   this   pleasant   fashion 

The   mighty   monarch    spoke ; 
For   Kings   have   merry   fancies 

Like   other   mortal   folk ; 
And   none    so   high    and   mighty 

But  loves   his   little  joke.) 

XIII. 

"  But   power   is   scarcely   worthy 

Of  honor   or   applause, 
That   in   its    domination 

Contemns   the   widow's    cause, 
Or    perpetrates   injustice 

By   trampling   on   the    laws. 

XIV. 

"  That   I   have   wronged   the   meanest 
No   honest   tongue   may    say ; 

So   bide   you    in   your   cottage, 
Good    woman,    while   you    may ; 

What's   yours    by   deed   and   purchase 
No   man   may   take   away. 


THE   KING   AND    THE    COTTAGER.  99 

XV. 

"  And   I    will   build    beside    it,  — 
For   though   your   cot   may   be 

In   such   a   lordly   presence 
No   fitting   thing   to    see, 

If  it   honor   not   my    castle, 
It   will    surely   honor   me  !  — 

XVI. 

"  For   so   my   loyal   people 

Who   gaze    upon    the    sight, 
Shall   know   that   in   oppression 

I   do   not   take   delight ; 
Nor   hold   a   King's   convenience 

Before   a   subject's   right !  " 

XVII. 

Now   from   his    spoken    purpose 

The    King   departed   not ; 
He   built   the   royal   dwelling 

Upon   the   chosen   spot, 
And   there    they   stood   together, 

The   palace   and   the   cot ! 


100  THE    KING    AND    THE    COTTAGER. 

XVIII. 
Sure    such   unseemly   neighbors 

Were   never   seen   before ; 
"  His    Majesty   is    doting," 

His    silly   courtiers    swore ; 
But   all    true   loyal   subjects, 

They   loved   the    King    the    more. 

XIX. 

Long,   long   he    ruled   his    kingdom 
In    honor   and    renown ; 

But   danger   ever   threatens 

The   head   that    wears    a   crown ; 

And    Fortune,    tired    of  smiling, 
For   once   put   on   a   frown. 

xx. 

For   ever   secret    Envy 
Attends   a   high   estate ; 

And   ever   lurking   Malice 

Pursues   the   good   and   great ; 

And    ever   base   Ambition 
Will    end   in   deadly    Hate ! 


THE  KING  AND  THE  COTTAGER.      101 
XXI. 

And   so   two   wicked   courtiers, 

Who   long   had   strove   in    vain, 
By   craft   and   evil   counsels, 

To   mar   the   monarch's    reign, 
Contrived   a   scheme   infernal 

Whereby  he    should   be    slain ! 

XXII. 

But   as   all   deeds   of  darkness 

Are  wont  to  leave  a  clue 
Before  the  glaring  sunlight 

To   bring   the   knaves   to    view ; 
That   sin   may   be   rewarded, 

And    Satan   get   his   due,  — 

XXIII. 

To   plan   their  wicked   treason, 

They  sought  a  lonely  spot 
Behind  the  royal  palace, 

Hard  by  this  widow's  cot, 
Who  heard  their  machinations, 

And   straight   revealed   the   plot ! 


102  THE    KING   AND    THE    COTTAGER. 

XXIV. 

"  I    see,"  —  exclaimed   the   monarch, 
"  The  just   are    wise   alone  ; 

Who   spares   the   rights    of  others 
May    chance   to   guard   his    own ; 

The   widow's   humble   cottage 

Has    propped  a  monarch's   throne ! " 


LOVE  AND  LUCRE. 

A3*    ALLEGORY. 

LOVE  and  LUCRE  met  one  day, 
In  chill  November  weather, 

And  so  to  while  the  time  away, 
They  held  discourse  together. 

LOVE   at   first   was   rather   shy, 
As    thinking   there   was   danger 

In   venturing   so    very    nigh 
The   haughty-looking   stranger. 

But   LUCRE   managed   to   employ 

Behavior   so   potential, 
That,   in   a   trice,   the   bashful   boy 

Grew   bold   and   confidential. 


104  LOVE   AND    LUCRE.    ' 

"  I   hear,"  quoth   LUCRE,   bowing   low, 
"  With    all   your   hearts   and   honey, 

You   sometimes    suffer  —  is   it   so?  — 
For   lack   of  mortal   money." 

LOVE   owned   that   he   was   poor   in   aught 

Except   in   golden   fancies, 
And   ne'er   as   yet   had   given   a   thought 

To   mending   his   finances ; 

"  Besides,   I  've   heard  "  —  so   LOVE    went   on, 

The   other's   hint   improving  — 
"  That   gold,   however   sought   or   won, 

Is   not   a   friend    to   loving." 

"  An   arrant  lie  !  —  as   you    shall   see,  — 

Full   long   ago   invented, 
By   knaves   who   know   not   you   nor   me, 

To   tickle   the   demented." 

i 
And    LUCRE   waved   his   wand,   and   lo ! 

By    magical    expansion, 


LOVE   AND    LUCRE.  105 

LOVE    saw    his   little    hovel   grow 
Into   a   stately   mansion ! 

And    where,   before,    he    used   to    sup 

Untended   in   his   cottage, 
And   grumble   o'er   the  earthen    cup 

That   held   his   meagre   pottage,  — 

Now,    smoking   viands   crown   his   board, 

And   many   a   flowing   chalice ; 
His   larder   was   with   plenty   stored, 

And   beauty   filled   the   palace ! 

And   LOVE,   though  rather   lean   at   first, 

And   tinged   with  melancholy, 

On    generous   wines  and   puddings   nursed, 

Grew   very   stout  and  jolly ! 

Yet,   mindful   of  his   early   friend, 

He    never   turns   detractor, 
But   prays   that   blessings   may    attend 

His   worthy   benefactor ; 


106  LOVE   AND    LUCRE. 

And   when   his   friends  are   gay   above 
Their   evening   whist   or  eucre, 

And   drink   a   brimming   health    to    LOVK, 
He   drinks   "  success    to    LUCRE  ! " 


DEATH   AND   CUPID. 

AN    ALLEGORY. 

AH  !  —  who   but   oft   hath   marvelled   why 

The   gods   who   rule   above 
Should   e'er   permit   the   young   to   die, 

The   old   to   fall   in   love! 

Ah  !  —  why   should   hapless   human   kind 

Be    punished   out   of  season  ? 
Pray   listen,   and   perhaps   you  '11   find 

My   rhyme   may   give   the   reason. 

DEATH,   strolling   out   one    Summer's   day, 
Met    CUPID,    with   his    sparrows ; 

And,   bantering   in   a   merry   way, 
Proposed   a   change   of  arrows ! 


108  DEATH   AND    CUPID. 

"  Agreed  !  "  —  quoth    CUPID,  —  "I   foresee 
The    queerest   game   of  errors ; 

For   you    the    King   of  Hearts    will   be ! 
And    I'll   be    King   of  Terrors!" 

And   so   't  was   done  —  alas   the   day 
That   multiplied   their   arts  !  — 

Each   from    the   other   bore    away 
A    portion   of  his   darts !  — 

And   that   explains   the    reason    why, 

Despite   the   gods   above, 
The   young   are   often   doomed   to   die ; 

The   old   to   fall   in   love! 


THE  FAMILY  MAN. 

I    WAS    once   a  jolly   young   beau, 
And   knew   how    to   pick   up    a   fan, 

But   I  've  done   with   all   that,   you   must   know, 
For   now    I  'm   a   family   man ! 

When  a  partner  I  ventured  to  take, 
The  ladies  all  favored  the  plan ; 

They  vowed  I  was  certain  to  make 
"  Such  an  excellent  family  man !  " 

If  I   travel   by   land   or  by   water, 

I   have   charge   of  some    Susan   or   Ann ; 

Mrs.    Brown   is   so   sure   that   her   daughter 
Is   safe   with   a   family   man ! 

The    trunks   and   the   bandboxes   round    'em 
TVith   something   like    horror   I   scan, 

But   though    I   may   mutter,    "  Confound    'em ! " 
I    smile  —  like   a   family    man  ! 


THE   FAMILY  MAN. 

I  once  was  as  gay  as  a  templar, 
But  levity 's  now  under  ban ; 

Young   people   must   have    an    exemplar, 
And  I   am   a   family   man ! 

The  club-men  I  meet  in  the  city 
All  treat  me  as  well  as  they  can ; 

And  only  exclaim,  "  What  a  pity 
Poor  Tom  is  a  family  man ! " 

I   own   I   am   getting   quite    pensive ; 

Ten    children,   from    David   to    Dan, 
Is    a   family   rather   extensive ; 

But   then  —  I  'm   a   family    man  ! 


NE   CREDE   COLORI: 

OR,    TRUST    NOT    TO    APPEARANCES. 

THE    musty   old   maxim    is   wise, 
Although   with   antiquity   hoary ; 

What   an   excellent   homily   lies 

In    the   motto,   "  Ne   crede   colori!" 

A   blustering   minion   of  Mars 
Is    vaunting   his   battles    so   gory ; 

You   see    some   equivocal    scars, 
And   mutter,   Ne   crede  colori! 

A    fellow   solicits   your   tin 
By    telling   a   runaway   story ; 

You   look    at   his    ebony    skin, 
And   think   of,   Ne  crede  colori! 


112  NE    CREDE    COLORI. 

You    gaze    upon   beauty    that   vies 
With   the   rose   and   the   lily   in    glory ; 

But   certain   "  inscrutable   dyes " 
Remind   you,   Ne   crede   colori! 

There's   possibly   health   in   the   flush 
That   rivals    the   red   of  Aurora ; 

But   brandy-and-water   can   blush, 
And   whisper,   Ne   crede   colori! 

My    story   is   presently   done, 

Like   the   ballad   of  good   Mother   Morey ; 
But   all   imposition    to   shun, 

Remember,  Ne  crede  colori! 


CLARA  TO   CLOE. 

AX     EPISTLE     FROM     A     CITY     LADY     TO     A      COUNTRY 
COUSIN. 

DEAR    CLOE:  —  I'm   deeply   your   debtor, 

(Though   the   mail   was    uncommonly    slow,) 
For   the   very   agreeable   letter 

You   wrote   me   a   fortnight   ago. 
I   know   you   are    eagerly   waiting 

For   all   that   I   promised   to   write, 
But   my    pen   is   unequal   to   stating 

One   half  that   my   heart   would   indite. 

The    weather   is   terribly   torrid ; 

And   writing 's   a   serious    task ; 
The   new   style   of  bonnet   is   horrid ; 

And   so   is   the   new-fashioned   basque; 
The   former  —  but   language   would   fail 

Were   its    epithets   doubly   as    strong  — 
The   latter   is   worn  with   a   tail 

Very   ugly   and   tediously   long  ! 


114  CLARA   TO    CLOE. 

And   then   as   to    crinoline  —  Gracious  ! 

If  you   only   could   see    cousin    Ruth  — 
The    pictures,   for   once,   are   veracious, 

And   editors  utter    the   truth  ! 
I   know   you    will   think   it   a  pity ; 

And   every   one   makes    such   a   sneer   of  it  ; 
But   there   isn't   a   saint   in   the   city 

Whose   skirts   are    entirely   clear   of  it ! 

And   then   what   a   fortune   of  stuff 

To   cover   the    skeleton   over  !  — 
Charles  'says   the   idea   is   enough 

To   frighten   a   sensible   lover ; 
And,   pretending   that  we   are   to   blame 

For   every   financial   declension, 
Swears   husbands   must   soon   do   the   same, 

If  wives   have   another   "  extension  ! " 

The   town   is   exceedingly   dull, 
And   so   is   the   latest   new   farce  ; 

The   parks   are   uncommonly   full, 
But  beaux   are   deplorably   scarce  ; 


CLARA    TO    CLOE.  115 

They  're   gone  to  the   "  Springs "    and   the  "  Falls," 
To   exhibit   their   greyhounds    and   graces, 

And   recruit   at,  —  what   Frederick   calls  — 
The    Brandy-and- Watering   Places  ! 

Since   my   former   epistle,    which    carried 

The   news   of  that   curious   plot ; 
Of  Miss    S.    who   ran  off  —  and    was   married ; 

Of  Miss    B.   who   ran   off  —  and    was    not,  — 
There   is  n't   a   whisper   of  scandal 

To   keep   gentle   ladies    in    humor, 
And    Gossip,   the   pleasant   old   vandal, 

Is    dying   for   want   of  a   rumor !  CLARA. 

P.  S.  —  But   was  n't   it   funny  ?  — 

Mrs.   Jones,   at   a   party   last    week, 
(The   lady   so   proud   of  her   money, 

Of  whom   you   have   oft   heard   me   speak,) 
Appeared   so   delightfully   stupid, 

When    she    spoke,    through    the    squeak     of     her 

phthisic, 
Of  the    statue   of  Psyche    and    Cupid 

As    "  the    statute    of   Cuppid   and  Physic !  "         C. 


CLOE   TO  CLARA. 

A     SARATOGA     LETTER. 

DEAR    CLARA  :  —  I   wish   you  were   here 

The   prettiest   spot   upon   earth  ! 
With   everything   charming,   my   dear,  — 

Beaux,   badinage,   music,    and    mirth  ! 
Such   rows   of  magnificent   trees, 

Overhanging   such   beautiful   walks, 
Where   lovers    may   stroll,   if  they   please, 

And  indulge   in   the   sweetest   of  talks  ! 

We   go    every   morning,   like   geese, 

To   drink   at   the   favorite    Spring  ; 
Six   tumblers   of  water   a-piece, 

Is    simply    the    regular   thing  ; 
For   such   is    its    wonderful   virtue, 

Though   rather   unpleasant   at   first, 
No   quantity   ever    can   hurt   you, 

Unless   you   should   happen   to   burst  ! 


CLOE    TO    CLARA.  117 

And   then,    what    a    gossiping    sight  ! 

What    talk    about   William    and    Harry  ; 
How   Julia   was    spending   last   night  ; 

And   wliy   Miss   Morton   should    marry ! 
Dear    Clara,  I've   happened   to    see 

Full   many   a   tea-table   slaughter; 
But,   really,    scandal   with    tea 

Is   nothing   to   scandal   with   water  ! 

Apropos   of  the    Spring  —  have   you    heard 

The   quiz   of  a   gentleman   here 
On   a   pompous    M.    C.    who   averred 

That   the   name   was   remarkably   queer  ? 
"  The    Spring,  —  to   keep   it   from   failing,  — 

With   wood   is   encompassed   about, 
And   derives,   from   its   permanent   railing, 

The   title   of  <  Congress,'   no    doubt  ! " 

'T  is   pleasant   to   guess    at   the   reason  — 

The   genuine    motive    which   brings 
Such   all-sorts   of  folks,   in    the    season, 

To   stop   a   few   days   at   the    Springs. 


118  CLOE   TO    CLARA. 

Some    come   to   partake   of  the    waters, 
(The    sensible,   old-fashioned   elves,) 

Some    come   to    dispose   of  their   daughters, 
And   some   to   dispose   of  —  themselves  ! 

Some    come    to    exhibit   their   faces 

To   new   and   admiring   beholders  ; 
Some    come   to    exhibit   their   graces, 

And   some   to    exhibit   their   shoulders  ; 
Some   come   to   make   people    stare 

At   the   elegant   dresses   they  've   got ; 
Some   to    show    what   a   lady   may   wear, 

And   some,  —  what   a   lady   should   not  ! 

Some   come    to    squander   their   treasure, 

And   some   their   funds   to   improve  ; 
And   some   for   mere   love   of  pleasure, 

And   some   for   the   pleasure   of  love  ; 
And   some   to    escape   from    the   old, 

And    some   to   see    what   is   new ; 
But   most  —  it   is   plain   to   be   told  — 

Come   here  —  because   other   folks   do  ! 


CLOE    TO    CLARA.  119 

And   that,   I   suppose,   is   the    reason 

Why   /  am   enjoying,   to-day, 
What  '&   called   "  the   height  —  of  the   season  " 

In   rather   the   loftiest  way. 
Good-bye  —  for   now   1   must    stop  — 

To    Charley's    command    I   resign,  — 
So   I  'm   his   for   the   regular   hop, 

But   ever   most   tenderly   thine,  CLOE. 


WISHING. 

OP   all   amusements   for   the   mind, 

From   logic   down   to  fishing, 
There   isn't   one   that   you   can  find 

So  very   cheap   as    "  wishing." 
A  very  choice   diversion   too, 

If  we   but   rightly  use   it, 
And   not,  as    we   are   apt   to   do, 

Pervert   it,   and   abuse   it. 

I  wish  —  a   common  wish   indeed, — 

My  purse  were    somewhat  fatter, 
That   I   might   cheer   the    child    of  need, 

And    not   my   pride    to  flatter ; 
That   I   might   make    Oppression   reel, 

As    only  gold   can   make    it, 
And   break   the   Tyrant's    rod   of  steel, 

As    only  gold   can   break   it. 


, 

WISHING.  151 

I  wish  —  that    Sympathy  and    Love, 

And   every  human   passion, 
That   has   its   origin   above, 

Would   come   and   keep    in  fashion ; 
That    Scorn,  and   Jealousy,  and    Hate, 

And   every  base   emotion, 
Were   buried  fifty  fathom    deep 

Beneath   the  waves   of  Ocean! 

I  wish  —  that  friends   were    always   true, 

And   motives   always   pure ; 
I  wish   the   good  were   not   so   few, 

I  wish   the   bad  were  fewer; 
I  wish   that   parsons   ne'er  forgot 

To   heed   their   pious    teaching ; 
I  wish   that   practising   was   not 

So   different  from   preaching ! 

I   wish  —  that   modest   worth   might   be 
Appraised   with   truth   and   candor ; 

I   wish   that   innocence    were   free 
From   treachery   and   slander; 


. 

WISHING. 


I  wish    that  men    their  vows   would    mind  ; 

That   women   ne'er   were   rovers ; 
I   wish   that   wives   were   always   kind, 

And   husbands   always   lovers ! 

I   wish — in   fine  —  that   Joy  and   Mirth, 

And   every    good   Ideal, 
May    come    erewhile,  throughout   the   earth, 

To   be  the   glorious    Real ; 
Till    God   shall   every   creature   bless 

With   his    supremest   blessing, 
And    Hope   be   lost   in   Happiness, 

And   Wishing   in    Possessing ! 


RICHARD   OF   GLOSTER. 

A    TRAVESTIE. 

PERHAPS,  my  dear  boy,  you  may  never  have  heard 
Of  that   wicked   old   monarch,  KING   RICHARD    THE 

THIRD,  — 

Whose   actions   were   often   extremely   absurd ; 
And   who   led   such   a   sad   life, 
Such   a  wanton    and   mad   life ; 
Indeed,   I   may   say,   such   a   wretchedly   bad  life, 
I   suppose   I   am   perfectly   safe   in   declaring, 
There  was  ne'er  such  a  monster  of  infamous  daring; 
In   all    sorts   of  crime   he    was    wholly   unsparing ; 
In   pride  and   ambition   was    quite   beyond   bearing ; 
And   had   a   bad   habit   of  cursing   and   swearing. 

I   must   own,  my  dear  boy,  I   have   more   than   sus 
pected 
The    King's   education    was   rather   neglected; 


124  RICHARD    OF    GLOSTER. 

And   that   at  your   school    with   any    two    "  Dicks " 
Whom   your   excellent   teacher   diurnally   pricks 
In   his    neat   little   tables,   in   order   to   fix 
Each   pupil's   progression    with    numeral   nicks, 
Master    RICHARD    Y.     GLOSTER   would    often    have 

heard 
His   standing   recorded   as,   "  Richard  —  the    third ! " 

But   whatever   of  learning   his   Majesty   had, 

Tis   clear   the    King's    English    was    shockingly    bad, 

At   the    slightest   pretence 

Of  disloyal   offence, 

His    anger   exceeded   all   reason   or   sense ; 
And,   having   no   need   to   foster   or   nurse   it,    he 
Would  open  his  wrath,  then,  as    if  to  disperse  it,  he 
Would   scatter   his    curses   like    College    degrees ; 

And,    quite   at   his   ease, 

Conferred   his   "  d-tfa." 
As    plenty   and   cheap   as   a   young   University! 

And   yet    Richard's   tongue   was   remarkably  smooth; 
Could   utter   a   lie    quite    as   easy   as   truth; 
(Another   bad   habit   he   got   in   his   youth ;) 


RICHARD    OF    GLOSTER.  125 

And   had,    on    occasion,   a   powerful   battery 

Of  plausible   phrases   and   eloquent  flattery, 

Which    gave   him,   my   boy,   in   that   barbarous    day, 

(Things   are   different   noAv,   I   am   happy  to   say,) 

Over   feminine  hearts   a   most   perilous    sway. 

The  women,   in   spite   of  an   odious   hump 

Which    he    wore    on    his    back,   all    thought   him    a 

trump  ; 

And  just  when  he  M  played  them  the  scurviest  trick, 
They  'd   swear   in   their   hearts  that   this  crooked   old 

stick,  — 

This   treacherous,   dangerous,   dissolute    Dick, 
For   honor   and   virtue   beat    Cato  all   hollow ; 
And   in   figure   and  face   was   another   Apollo ! 

He   murdered    their   brothers, 

And   fathers    and   mothers ; 

And,  worse   than   all   that,  he   slaughtered  by  dozens 
His   own   royal  •  uncles   and   nephews   and   cousins ; 
And   then,   in   the    cunningest   sort   of  orations, 

In    smooth   conversations, 

And   flattering   ovations, 
Made   love   to   their   principal   female   relations ! 


126  RICHARD    OF    GLOSTER. 

'Twas   very   improper,    my   boy,   you   must   know, 
For   the   son   of  a    King   to   behave   himself  so ; 
And    you  '11    scarcely    believe    what    the    chronicles 
show 

Of  his   wonderful    wooings, 

And    infamous    doings ; 
But   here 's   an   exploit   that   he    certainly   did  do  — 

Killed   his   own    cousin   NED, 

As    he    slept   in    his   bed, 
And   married,   next   day,    the   disconsolate  widow ! 

I   don't   understand   how    such    ogres    arise, 
But   beginning,   perhaps,   with    things    little    in    size, 
Such   as   torturing   beetles   and   bluebottle-flies, 
Or   scattering   snuff  in   a   poodle-dog's   eyes,  — 
King   Richard   had   grown   so    wantonly   cruel, 
He   minded   a   murder   no   more    than   a   duel; 
He'd   indulge,  on    the  slightest   pretence  or  occasion, 
In   his   favorite   amusement   of  Decapitation, 

Until   "Off  with   his   head!" 

It   is    credibly   said, 

From   his   Majesty's   mouth   came    as    easy   and   pat 
As   from   an   old   constable,    "  Off  with   his   hat ! " 


RICHARD    OF    GLOSTER.  127 

One   really   shivers, 

And   fairly   quivers, 

To   think   of  the    treatment   of   Grey,    and    Rivers, 
And   Hastings,  and  Vaughn,  and   other   good  livers, 
All   suddenly    sent,   at   the   tap    of  a   drum, 
From   the    Kingdom  of   England    to   Kingdom- Come  • 
Of  Buckingham   doomed   to   a   tragical   end 
For   being   the   tyrant's   particular   friend; 
Of  Clarence   who   died,   it   is   mournful   to   think, 
Of  wine   that   he    was  n't   permitted   to   drink ! 
And   the   beautiful   babies   of  royal   blood, 
Two   little   White    Roses   both   nipt   in    the   bud ! 
And   silly    Queen   Anne  —  what  sorrow   it  cost   her 
(And   served   her   right!)    for   daring   to   foster 
The   impudent   suit   of  this    Richard   of   Gloster ; 
Who,   instead"  of  conferring   a   royal   gratuity, 
A   dower,   or   even   a   decent   Anne-uity, 
Just    gave    her   a   portion   of —  something   or   other 
That   made   her   as    quiet   as    Pharaoh's    mother ! 

Ah,    Richard!  —  you're   going   it   quite   too   fast; 
Your   doom   is   slow,   but   it 's    coming   at   last ; 


128  RICHARD    OF    GLOSTER. 

Your   bloody   crown 

"Will   topple    down, 
And   you  '11    be   done   uncommonly   brown ! 

Your   foes   are   thick, 

My   daring   Dick, 

And   RICHMOND,   a   prince   and   a   regular  brick, 
Is   after   you   now   with   a    very   sharp    stick ! 

On    Bosworth   field   the    armies   to-night 
Are   pitching  their   tents   in   each   other's   sight ; 
And     to-morrow  !  —  to-morrow  !  —  they  're     going     to 
fight ! 

And   now    King    Richard   has    gone   to   bed; 

But   e'en   in   his    sleep 

He   cannot   keep 
The   past   or   the   future   out   of  his   head. 

In   his   deep    remorse, 

Each   mangled   corse 

Of  all   he   had    slain,  —  or,    what   was    worse, 
Their   ghosts,  —  came   up   in    terrible   force, 
And   greeted   his    ear   with   unpleasant   discourse, 


RICHARD    OF    GLOSTER.  129 

Until,    with   a    scream, 
He    woke   from    his    dream, 
And   shouted    aloud   for   "  another   horse ! " 

Perhaps   you    may   think,   my    little   dear, 

King    Richard's   request  was    rather   queer ; 

But  I  '11   presently  make    it   exceedingly    clear :  — 

THE     ROYAL     SLEEPER     WAS     OVERFED. 

I   mean   to   say   that,   against   his   habit, 

He  'd    eaten   Welch-rabbit 
With    very   bad   whiskey   on   going   to   bed. 
I've   had   the   Night-Mare   with   horrible   force, 
And   much   prefer   a    different   horse ! 

But   see !  the   murky   Night   is   gone ! 
The   Morn    is    up,   and   the    Fight   is   on ! 
The    Knights   are    engaging,    the    warfare    is    waging, 
On   the   right — on    the    left,    the   battle   is    raging; 
King   Richard    is    down ! 
Will    he    save    his    crown  ? 
There 's    a    crack    in    it    now !  —  he 's    beginning    to 

bleed  ! 
Aha !    King   Richard   has   lost   his   steed ! 


130  RICHARD    OF    GLOSTER. 

(At   a   moment   like   this    't  is    a   terrible   need !) 
He   shouts   aloud   with   thundering   force, 
And   offers   a   very   high    price    for   a   horse. 
But   it 's   all   in   vain  —  the    battle   is    done  — 
The   day   is   lost !  —  and   the   day   is   won !  — 
And  RICHMOND  is  King !  and  RICHARD  's  a  corse ! 

MORAL. 

Remember,   my   boy,    that   moral   enormities 
Are   apt   to   attend   corporeal   deformities. 
Whatever   you    have,    or   whatever   you    lack, 
Beware   of  getting   a    crook   in   your   back ; 
And,    while   you're    about   it,  I'd  very  much   rather 
You  'd  grow  tall  and  superb,  i.  e.  copy  your  father ! 

Don't   learn   to   be    cruel,   pray   let   me   advise, 
By   torturing   beetles   and   bluebottle-flies, 
Or   scattering   snuff  in    a   poodle-dog's    eyes. 

If  you    ever   should  marry,   remember   to    wed 

A  handsome,  plump,  modest,  sweet-spoken,  well-bred, 

And    sensible   maiden   of  twenty  —  instead 

Of  a   widow   whose   husband   is    recently   dead ! 


RICHARD    OF    GLOSTER.  131 

If  you  'd    shun    in    your    naps    those    horrible   Incubi, 
Beware    what    you    eat,   and    be    careful    what   drink 

you   buy  ; 

Or  else  you.  may  see,  in  your  sleep's   perturbations, 
Some   old   and   uncommonly   ugly   relations, 
Who'll   be   very   apt   to   disturb   your   nutations 
By   unpleasant   allusions,   and    rude   observations ! 


HO-HO   OF   THE    GOLDEN   BELT. 

ONE    OF    THE    "  NINE    STORIES    OF    CHINA," 
VERSIFIED     AND     DIVERSIFIED. 

A   BEAUTIFUL    maiden    was    little    MiN-NE, 
Eldest   daughter   of  wise   WANG-KE  ; 
Her   skin   had    the    color   of  saffron   tea, 
And   her   nose    was    flat   as    flat   could    be ; 
And   never   were    seen    such   beautiful    eyes, 
Two   almond-kernels   in   shape   and    size, 
Set   in    a   couple   of    slanting   gashes, 
And   not   in   the    least   disfigured   by   lashes ; 

And    then    such   feet ! 

You  'd   scarcely   meet 
In   the   longest   walk    through    the   grandest   street, 

(And    you    might   go    seeking 

From    Nanking   to    Peeking,) 
A  pair   so   remarkably   small   and    neat ! 

Two   little    stumps, 

Mere   pedal   lumps, 


HO-HO    OF   THE    GOLDEX    BELT.  133 

That   toddle   along   with   the   funniest   thumps, 

In   China,   you  know,  are   reckoned   trumps. 

You    guess   the   owner,  the   moment   you   hear  'em, 

By  the   classical   rule,    "  ex  pede    Venerem ! " 

It   seems    a   trifle,  to   make   such   a   boast   of   it ; 

But   how  they  will  dress   it, 

And   bandage   and   press   it, 
By  making   the   least,   to   make   the    most   of   it  ! 

As   you   may   suppose, 

She   had   plenty  of  beaux 
Bowing   around   her   beautiful   toes, 
Praising   her  feet,  and   eyes,  and   nose, 
In   rapturous    verse   and    elegant   prose ! 
She   had   lots   of  lovers,  old   and   young ; 
There   was   lofty  LONG,  and   babbling  LUNG, 
Opulent   TIN,  and   eloquent   TUNG, 
Musical    SING,  and,  the    rest   among, 
Great   HANG-YU   and  YU-BE-HUNG. 

But   though   they  smiled   and   smirked   and   bowed, 
None   could   please   her   of  all   the   crowd ; 
LUNG   and   TUNG   she    thought   too   loud ; 


134  HO-HO    OF   THE   GOLDEX   BELT. 

Opulent  TIN  was   much   too    proud ; 

Lofty  LONG  was    quite   too   tall ; 

Musical    SING    sung   very  small ; 

And,   most   remarkable   freak    of   all, 

Of  great   HANG-Yu    the    lady  made    game, 

And   YU-BE-HUNG  she   mocked   the   same, 

By  echoing   back    his    ugly  name ! 

But   the   hardest   heart   is    doomed  to  melt ; 

Love   is   a   passion   that  will  be   felt ; 

And   just   when    scandal  was   making  free 

To   hint    "  what    a   pretty  old   maid   she  'd   be " 

Little   MIN-NE, 

(Who   but   she?) 

Married    Ho-Ho    of   the   Golden    Belt! 
A  man,   I   must   own,   of  bad   reputation, 
And   low  in   purse,  though   high   in   station  — 
A   sort    of    Imperial    poor-relation ; 
Who   ranked   as   the    Emperor's    second   cousin, 
Multiplied   by  a   hundred    dozen ; 
And,  to    mark   the   love   the    Emperor  felt, 

Had   a   pension   clear 

Of   three   pounds   a-year, 
And   the   honor   of  wearing   a   Golden    Belt ! 


HO-HO    OF   THE    GOLDEX   BELT.  135 

And   gallant   Ho-Ho 

Could   really  show 
A  handsome  face,   as  faces   go 
In   the    Flowery  Land   where,   you   must   know, 
The  finest  flowers    of   beauty  grow. 
He  'd   the  very  widest   kind   of  jaws, 
And    his    nails   were    like   an    eagle's    claws, 
And  —  though   it   may  seem    a  wondrous    tail  — 
(Truth    is    mighty  and  will   prevail  !  ) 
He  'd   a  queue   as    long   as    the    deepest   cause 
Under   the    Emperor's    chancery   laws  ! 


Yet   how  he   managed   to   win 

The   men    declared   they   could  n't   see  ; 

But   all    the   ladies,  over   their    tea, 

In   this   one    point   were   known    to    agree  :  — 

Four   gifts    were    sent    to    aid    his    plea: 

A  srnoking-pipe  with    a    golden    clog, 

A  box   of   tea,    and   a   poodle   dog, 

And   a   painted   heart   that  was   all   a-flame, 

And   bore,  in    blood,  the    lover's   name. 

Ah!    how  could    presents   pretty  as    these 


136       HO-HO  OF  THE  GOLDEN  BELT. 

A  delicate    lady  fail    to  please  ? 
She    smoked   the    pipe    with    the    golden    clog, 
And    drank   the    tea,    and    ate    the    dog, 
And   kept   the   heart,  —  and    that's    the    way 
The   match    was    made,    the   gossips    say. 

I   can't   describe    the    wedding   day, 
Which   fell   in   the   lovely  month   of   May ; 
Nor    stop    to   tell   of  the    Honey-Moon, 
And   how   it   vanished    all   too   soon ; 
Alas !    that   I   the   truth    must   speak, 
And   say,    that   in   the   fourteenth    week, 
Soon    as    the  wedding-guests    were   gone, 

And   their   wedding-suits    began    to    doff, 
MiN-Nte    was    weeping   and   "  taking   on," 

For   he   had   been   trying   to   "  take    her   off ! " 
Six   wives   before   he   had   sent   to    Heaven, 
And   being   partial   to   number    "  Seven," 
He    wished   to   add   his    latest   pet, 
Just,   perhaps,   to    make    up    the    set. 
Mayhap    the    rascal    found    a   cause 
Of  discontent   in   a   certain    clause 
In    the    Emperor's   very   liberal   laws, 


HO-HO  OF  THE  GOLDEN  BELT.       137 

Which    gives,    when   a   Golden    Belt   is    wed, 
Six    hundred    pounds    to    furnish    the    bed  ; 
And   if,   in   turn,   he   marry   a   score, 
With    every  wife    six   hundred   more. 


First   lie   tried   to   murder 

With    «i   special    cup   of  poisoned   tea  ; 

But   the    lady,   smelling   a   mortal   foe, 

Cried   «Ho-Ho!  — 
I'm    very    fond    of   mild    Souchong, 
But   you  —  my   love  —  you    make   it   too    strong  !  " 

At   last    Ho-PIo,    the   treacherous   man, 
Contrived    the    most   infernal   plan 
Invented    since    the    world    began  : 
He   went   and   got   him    a   savage    dog, 
Who  'd   eat   a   woman   as    soon    as    a   frog, 
Kept   him    a    day   without    any  prog, 
Then    shut    him    up    in    an    iron    bin, 
Slipped   the    bolt,   and   locked   him    in  ; 

Then    giving   the   key 

To   poor   MIN-NE, 


138       HO-HO  OF  THE  GOLDBX  BELT. 

Said,    "  Love,   there 's    something   you   must  n't   see 
In   the    chest   beneath   the   orange-tree." 

****** 
Poor,   mangled    MiN-NE  !    with    her   latest   breath, 
She    told   her   father   the    cause    of  her   death ; 
And    so   it   reached   the    Emperor's    ear, 
And   his    Highness    said,    "  It   is    very   clear, 
Ho-Ho    has    committed   a   murder   here ! " 

And   he    doomed    Ho-Ho    to    end   his    life 
By    the    terrible    dog   that    killed   his    wife ; 
But   in   mercy    (let   his   praise    be    sung ! ) 
His   thirteen   brothers   were    merely   hung, 
And   his    slaves   bambooed,    in   the   mildest   way, 
For   a   calendar   month,   three    times   a   day ; 
And   that's    the    way   that   JUSTICE    dealt 
With   wicked    Ho-Ho    of  the    Golden    Belt  ! 


.TOM  BROWN'S  DAY  IN   GOTHAM. 

Qui  mores  hominum  multorum  vidit  et  URBEM. 

I  'LL    tell   you    a   story   of  THOMAS    BROWN  — 
I   don't   mean    the   poet   of  Shropshire   town ; 
Nor   the    Scotch    Professor   of  wide   renown ; 
But   "  Honest   Tom    Brown ; "   so   called,   no    doubt, 

Because   with   the   same 

Identical   name, 

A   good   many   fellows   were   roving   about 
Of  whom   the    sheriff  might   prudently    swear 
That   "  honest "    with   them,   was   a   non-est   affair  ! 

Now   Tom   was   a   Yankee   of  wealth   and   worth, 
Who   lived   and   throve   by   tilling   the    Earth ; 

For   Tom   had   wrought 

As   a   farmer   ought, 

Who,    doomed    to    toil    by    original    sinning, 
Began  —  like   Adam  —  at   the    beginning. 


140 

He    ploughed,    he   harrowed,    and    he    sowed ; 

He    drilled,   he    planted,   and   he   hoed ; 

He    dug   and    delved,    and   reaped   and   mowed. 

(I    wish   I   could  —  but   I   can't  —  tell   now 

"Whether   he   used   a   subsoil-plough ; 

Or   whether,   in    soothj    he    had   ever   seen 

A   regular   reaping   and   raking-machine.) 

He   took   most   pains 

With    the   nobler   grains 
Of  higher   value,    and   finer   tissues 

Which,    possibly,    one 

Inclined   to   a   pun, 

Would    call  —  like    Harper  —  his    "  cereal  issues  ! " 
With    wheat   his   lands   were   all   a-blaze ; 
'T  was   amazing   to   look   at   his   fields   of  maize ; 

And   there    were   places 

That   showed   rye-faces 
As   pleasant   to   see   as    so   many    Graces. 

And   as   for   Hops, 

His   annual   crops, 

(So    very   extensive   that,   on    my    soul, 
They   fairly   reached   from   pole    to   pole !) 


TOM  BROWN'S  DAY  ix  GOTHAM.  141 

Would   beat   the    guess   of  any   old   fogie, 
Or  —  the   longest   season   at    Saratoga  ! 
Whatever   seed   did   most   abound, 
In   the   grand   result   that   Autumn   found, 

It   was   his   plan, 

Though   a   moderate    man, 
To   be    early   running   it    into    the    ground ; 

That   is    to   say, 

In    another   way  :  — 
Whether   the   seed   was   barley   or   hay, 
Large   or   little,   or   green   or   gray,  — 
Provided   only   it   promised   to   "  pay,"  — 
He   never   chose   to   labor   in    vain 
By    stupidly    going    against    the    grain, 
But   hastened   away,    without   stay   or   stop, 
And   carefully   put   it   into   his   crop. 

And   he   raised   tomatoes 

And   lots   of  potatoes, 
More    sorts,   in   sooth,    than   I   could   tell ; 
Turnips,   that   always   turned   up    well ; 
Celery,   all   that   he    could   sell ; 
Grapes   by   the   bushel,    sour   and    sweet ; 
Beets,   that   certainly   could  n't   be   beat ; 


142          TOM  BROWN'S  DAY  IN  GOTHAM. 

Cabbage  —  like    some    sartorial   mound  ; 

Vines,   that   fairly   cw-cumbered   the    ground ; 

Some   pumpkins  —  more    than    he    could   house,    and 

Ten   thousand   pears ;    (that 's    twenty   thousand !) 

Fruit   of   all   kinds    and   propagations, 

Baldwins,    Pippins,    and    Carnations, 

And   apples   of  other   appellations. 

To   sum   it   all   up   in   the   briefest   space, 

As   you   may   suppose,    Brown   flourished   apace, 

Just   because   he    proceeded,    I    venture    to    say, 

In    the    nutta-retrorsum-vestigi-ous    way ; 

That   is  —  if  you  're   not   University-bred  — 

He    took    Crocket's   advice   about   going   ahead. 

At   all   the    State    Fairs   he   held   a   fair   station, 

Raised   horses   and   cows   and   his    own    reputation ; 

Made   butter   and   money ;   took   a   Justice's    niche ; 

Grew  wheat,  wool,  and  hemp  ;  corn,  cattle,  and  —  rich ! 

But    who   would   be   always   a    country-clown  ? 

And   so   Tom    Brown 

Sat   himself  down, 
And,   knitting   his   brow   in   a    studious   frown, 

He   said,   says   he  :  — 

It's   plain   to    see, 


TOM  BROWN'S  DAY  IN  GO*THAM.          143 

And    I   think    Mrs.    B.    will   be    apt    to    agree, 
(If  she   don't,    it 's   much   the    same   to   me,) 

That    I,    TOM    BROWN, 

Should    go    to    town  ! 

But   then,    says   he,    what   town    shall   it   be  ? 
Boston-town    is    consid'rably    nearer, 
And    York    is    farther,    and    so    will    be    dearer, 
But   then,   of  course,    the   sights   will   be    queerer ; 
Besides,    I'm   told,   you're    surely   a   lost   'un, 
If  you   once   get   astray   in   the    streets   of  Boston. 

York    is    right-angled ; 

And    Boston,    right-tangled ; 

And    both,    I  've    no    doubt,    are    uncommon    new 
fangled. 

Ah !  —  the   "  SMITHS,"  I  remember,   belong   to  York, 
('Twas   ten   years    ago    I   sold   them    my   pork,) 
Good,   honest   traders  —  I  'd   like   to   know   them  — 
And   so  —  't  is    settled  —  I  '11   go   to    Gotham  ! 

And    so   Tom    Brown 

Sat   himself  down, 

With    many    a    smile    and    never    a    frown, 
And   rode,   by   rail,    to   that   notable   town 


144 

Which    I   really    think    well    worthy   of  mention 
As   being   America's   greatest   invention ! 
Indeed,    I'll   be    bound   that   if  Nature   and    Art, 
(Though    the    former,    being    older,    has    gotten    the 

start,) 

In    some   new    Crystal    Palace    of  suitable    size, 
Should    show    their    chefs-d'oeuvre,    and    contend    for 

the    prize, 
The    latter    would    prove,    when    it    came    to    the 

scratch, 

Whatever   you    may   think,   no    contemptible    match ; 
For    should    old    Mrs.   Nature    endeavor    to    stagger 

her 

By  presenting,  at  last,  her  majestic  Niagara ; 
Miss  Art  would  produce  an  equivalent  work 
In  her  great,  overwhelming,  unfinished  NEW  YORK  ! 

And   now   Mr.    Brown 

Was    fairly    in    town, 

In  that   part  of  the   city  they  used   to   call   "down," 
Not   far   from    the    spot   of  ancient   renown 

As    being   the    scene 

Of  the    Bowling    Green, 


TOM  BROWN'S  DAY  IN  GOTHAM.          145 

A   fountain   that    looked   like    a   huge    tureen 
Piled    up    with   rocks,    and   a    squirt   between ; 
But  the  "  Bowling "  now  has  gone  where   they  tally 
"The    Fall   of  the   Ten,"   in   a   neighboring   alley; 
And  as  to  the  "  Green  "  —  why,  that  you   will    find 
Whenever   you   see    the   "  invisible  "   kind  !  — 
And   he  stopped  at  an  Inn  that's  known  very  well, 
"  Delmonico's  "   once  —  now   "  Stevens's    Hotel  "  ; 
(And,  to  venture  a  pun  which   I  think  rather  witty, 
There 's   no   better   Inn   in   this    Inn-famous    city !) 

And   Mr.    Brown 

Strolled   up    town, 

And   I  'm   going   to   write    his   travels   down ; 
But   if  you    suppose    Tom    Brown    will    disclose 
The   usual   sins   and   follies   of  those 
Who   leave   rural   regions   to   see   city-shows  — 

You   could  n't   well   make 

A   greater   mistake ; 

For    Brown    was   a   man   of  excellent   sense  ; 
Could    see    very   well   through   a   hole    in    a   fence, 
And    was    honest   and    plain,    without    sham   or    pre 
tence  ; 

10 


DAY  IN  GOTHAM. 

Of  sharp,   city-learning   lie    could  n't   have    boasted, 
But   he   was  n't   the   chap   to   be   easily   roasted ; 
Though,    like    many    a    "  Bill,"    he    was  n't    well 
«  posted." 

And   here   let   me   say, 
In   a   very   dogmatic,   oracular    way, 
(And    I'll    prove   it,   before    I    have    done    with    rny 

lay,) 

Not   only   that   honesty 's    likely   to   "  pay," 
But   that   one    must   be,   as   a   general   rule, 
At   least   half  a   knave   to   be   wholly   a   fool ! 

Of  pocketbook-dropping,    Tom    never   had   heard, 
(Or   at    least   if   he    had,   he'd   forgotten   the   word,) 
And   now    when,   at   length,    the   occasion    occurred, 
For   that   sort   of  chaff  he    was  n't   the   bird. 
The   gentleman   argued    with   eloquent   force, 
And   begged   him   to   pocket   the   money,   of   course  ; 
But   Brown,    without    thinking   at   all   what   he    said, 
Popped   out   the   first   thing   that   entered   his   head, 
(Which  chanced  to  be   wondrously   fitting  and  true,) 
»  No  —  no  —  my    dear    Sir  —  I  '11    be    burnt    if    I 
do!" 


147 


Two   lively  young   fellows,    of  elegant   mien, 
Amused   him   awhile   with   a   pretty   machine  — 
An   ivory   ball,    which   he   never   had   seen. 
But   though   the   unsuspecting   stranger 
In   the    "patent   safe"    saw.no   patent   danger, 
He   easily   dodged   the   nefarious   net, 
Because   "  he   was  n't   accustomed   to   bet." 

Ah  !  —  here,   I  wot, 

Is    exactly   the    spot 

To   make   a   small   fortune   as    easy   as   not ! 
That    man    with    the    watch  —  what    lungs    he     has 

got! 

It 's   "  Going  —  the   best   of  that   elegant   lot  — 
To   close   a   concern,   at   a   desperate   rate,  — 
The  jeweller   ruined   as   certain   as   fate !  — 
A   capital   watch  !  —  you   may  see   by  the  weight  — 
Worth   one    hundred   dollars   as    easy   as   eight  — 
Or  half  of  that   sum    to   melt   down   into    plate  — 
(Brown    does  n't    know    '  Peter '    from    Peter    the 
Great) 

But   then   I    can't   dwell, 

I  'm   ordered    to    sell, 


148          TOM  BROWN'S  DAY  IN  GOTHAM. 

And    mus'n't    stand    weeping — just    look    at    the 

shell  — 

I  warrant   the   ticker   to   operate   well  — 
Nine   dollars !  —  it 's   hard   to   be   selling   it   under 
A   couple   of  fifties  —  it.'s   cruel,   by   Thunder! 
Ten   dollars  !  —  I  'm   offered  —  the  man   who   secures 
This   splendid  —  ten   dollars !  —  say  twelve,  and   it 's 

yours  ! " 
"  Don't   want    it "  —  quoth    Brown  —  "I   don't   wish 

to   buy ; 

Fifty   dollars,   I  'm   sure,   one   could  n't   call   high  — 
But    to    see    the    man    ruined!  —  Dear    Sir,    I    de 
clare  — 
Between    two    or    three    bidders,    it    does  n't    seem 

fair; 

To   knock   it   off  now   were   surely   a   sin ; 
Just  wait,  my  dear   Sir,   till  the  people   come  in !  — 
Allow   me   to    say,   you    disgrace   your   position 
As    Sheriff — consid'ring   the   debtor's    condition  — 
To    sell   such   a    watch    without   more   competition ! " 
And   here    Mr.    Brown 
Gave   a   very   black   frown, 
Stepped   leisurely  out,  and  walked   farther   up  town. 


TOM  BROWN'S  DAY  IN  GOTHAM.          149 

To   see   him   stray   along   Broadway 

In    the   afternoon    of  a   summer's   day, 

And   note    what   he   chanced   to    see   and    say ; 

And   what   people   he   meets 

In   the   narrower   streets, 
Were   a   pregnant   theme   for   a   longer   lay. 
How   he   marvelled    at   those    geological   chaps 
Who   go   poking   about   in   crannies    and   gaps, 
Those    curious   people   in   tattered   breeches, 
The   rag-wearing,   rag-picking   sons    of —  ditches, 
Who   find   in    the   very   nastiest   niches 
A   "  decent   living,"    and    sometimes   riches ; 
How    he    thought   city   prices    exceedingly    que'er, 
The    'busses   too    cheap,    and    the    hacks   too   dear ; 
How   he    stuck    in    the   mud,   and    got    lost    in    the 

question  — 

A   problem    too   hard   for   his   mental   digestion  — 
Why  —  in   cleaning   the    city,   the   city   employs 
Such   a  very  small  corps  of  such  very  small   boys ; 
How   he  judges   by   dress,    and   accordingly   makes, 
By   mixing   up   classes,   the   drollest   mistakes. 
How  —  as  if  simple   vanity    ever    were    vicious, 
Or   women   of  merit   could   be   meretricious,  — 


150          TOM  BROWN'S  DAY  IN  GOTHAM. 

He    imagines    the  dashing    Fifth-Avenue   dames 
The   same    as    the  girls  with   unspeakable   names ! 
An   exceedingly  natural   blunder   in    sooth, 
But,    I  'm   happy   to    say,    very   far   from    the   truth ; 
For   e'en   at   the   worst,    whate'er   you    suppose, 
The   one   sort   of  ladies    can   choose   their   beaux, 
While,   as    to   the   other  —  but   every   one   knows 
What  —  if  't  were   a   secret  —  I   would  n't   disclose. 

And    Mr.    Brown 

Returned   from   town, 

With    a   bran    new  hat,    and   a   muslin   gown, 
And   he   told   the   tale,   when    the    sun    was   down, 
How  he    spent   his    eagles,    and    saved  his    crown ; 
How   he   showed   his   pluck   by   resisting   the    claim 
Of  an  impudent   fellow    who   asked  his   name ; 
But   paid  —  as   a   gentleman    ever   is    willing  — 
At   the   old   Park- Gate,   the   regular   shilling ! 


POST-PRANDIAL  VERSES. 

RECITED     AT     THE     FESTIVAL      OF     THE     PSI     UPS1LOK 
FRATERNITY,    IN    BOSTON,    JULY    21,    1853. 

DEAR    Brothers,    who   sit   at   this    bountiful    board, 

With    excellent   viands    so   lavishly   stored, 

That,    in     newspaper    phrase,    't  would    undoubtedly 

groan, 

If  groaning   were   but   a   convivial   tone, 
Which   it   is  n't  —  and   therefore,   by   sympathy   led. 
The    table,   no   doubt,    is    rejoicing   instead. 
Dear  Brothers,  I   rise,  —  and   it  won't   be  surprising 
If    you   find     me,    like     bread,    all     the     better     for 

rising,  — 

I   rise   to   express   my    exceeding   delight 
In   our   cordial   reunion    this    glorious    night ! 

Success   to   "  PSI   UPSILON  !  "  —  Beautiful   name  !  — 
To   the   eye   and    the    ear   it   is    pleasant   the    same ; 


152  POST-PBANDIAL    VERSES. 

Many   thanks     to    old    Cadmus    who     made     us     his 

debtors, 

By   inventing,   one   day,   those    capital   letters 
Which   still,  from  the  heart,  we  shall   know  how  to 

speak 
When  we  've  fairly  forgotten  the  rest  of  our  Greek ! 

To   be    open    and   honest   in    all    that   you    do ; 

To    every   high   trust   to   be   faithful   and   true ; 

In    aught   that    concerns   morality's    scheme, 

To   be    more    ambitious   to   be   than    to   seem; 

To   cultivate   honor   as   higher   in    worth 

Than   favor   of  fortune,    or   genius,    or   birth ; 

By   every   endeavor   to   render   your   lives 

As   spotless   and   fair  as   your  —  possible   wives ; 

To   treat   with   respect   all   the   innocent   rules 

That   keep   us   at   peace   with   society's   fools ; 

But   to   face   every   canon   that   e'er   was    designed 

To   batter   a   town   or   beleaguer    a   mind, 

Ere  you  yield  to  the  Moloch  that  Fashion  has  reared 

One  jot  of  your  freedom,  or   hair  of  your  beard,  — 

All   this,  and  much  more,  I  might  venture  to  teach, 

Had  I  only  a  "  call "  —  and  a  "  license  to  preach  "  — 


POST-PRAXDIAL   VEESES.  153 

But   since   I   have   not,   to    my   modesty   true, 
I  '11   lay   it   all   by  —  as   a   layman   should    do  — 
And   drop   a   few   lines,   tipt    with    Momus's   flies, 
To   angle   for  shiners  —  that   lurk    in   your   eyes ! 

May  you  ne'er  get  in  love  or  in  debt,  with  a  doubt 
As   to    whether   or   no   you    will   ever   get   out ; 
May    you    ne'er    have    a    mistress    who    plays    the 

coquette, 

Or   a    neighbor   who   blows   on   a    cracked    clarionet  ; 
May  you  learn  the  first  use  of  a  lock  on   your  door, 
And   ne'er,    like    Adonis,    be   killed    by   a   bore ; 
Shun    canting   and   canters    with   resolute    force, 
(A   "  canter "   is    shocking,    except   in   a   horse ;) 
At  jovial   parties   mind    what   you   are   at, 
Beware    of  your   head   and   take   care   of  your   hat, 
Lest   you    find   that   a   favorite   son   of  your   mother 
Has   a  brick  in  the  one  and   an  ache   in  the  other ; 
May    you    never,   I   pray,    to    worry   your   life, 
Have  a  weak-minded  friend,  or  a  strong-minded  wife; 
A   tailor  distrustful,    or   partner   suspicious  ; 
A    dog   that   is   rabid,   or   nag   that   is   vicious  ; 


154  POST-PRANDIAL    VERSES, 

Above   all  —  the   chief    blessings    the    gods    can   im 
part,  — 

May  you   keep  a  clear  head  and  a  generous  heart; 
Remember   'tis   blessed    to   give   and   forgive; 
Live   chiefly   to   love,   and   love   while    you   live; 
And   dying,   when   life's    little   journey   is    done, 
May   your   last,    fondest   sigh,    be    Psi   UPSILON! 


LINES   ON  MY  THIRTY-NINTH  BIRTHDAY. 

ATT   me  !  —  the   moments    will   not   stay  ! 
Another   year   has   rolled   away; 
And   June    (the   second)    scores   the   line 
That   tells   me   I   am   Thirty-nine! 

As   thus   I   haste   the    mile-stones   by, 
I   mark   the   numbers   with   a   sigh  ; 
And   yet   'tis   idle   to   repine 
I  've    come   so   soon   to   Thirty-nine ! 

O,   few   that  roam   this   world   of  ours, 
To   feel   its   thorns    and   pluck    its  flowers, 
Have   trod   a   brighter   path   than   mine 
From   blithe   thirteen   to   Thirty-nine ! 

Health,   home,   and   friends,    (life's   solid   part,) 
A   merry   laugh,   a   fresh,   young   heart, 


156     LINES    ON   MY   THIRTY-NINTH   BIRTHDAY. 

Poetic   dreams,    and   love    divine  — 
Have   I   not   these   at   Thirty-nine  ?    ' 

0   Time  !  —  forego   thy   wonted   spite, 
And   lay   thy   future   lashes   light, 
And,   trust   me,   I    will   not   repine 
At   twice    the   count   of  Thirty-nine  ! 


SONNET  TO  . 

THINE   is   an   ever-changing   beauty ;   now 
With   that   proud   look,   so   lofty   yet   serene 
In   its   high   majesty,   thou   seem'st   a   queen, 

With   all   her   diamonds   blazing   on   her   brow ! 

Anon   I   see,  —  as   gentler   thoughts   arise 

And  mould  thy  features  in  their  sweet  control,  — 
The   pure,  white   ray  that   lights  a   maiden's   soul, 

And   struggles   outward   through   her   drooping   eyes ; 

Anon   they   flash ;   and   now   a   golden   light 

Bursts    o'er   thy   beauty,    like   the    Orient's    glow, 
Bathing   thy   shoulders'   and   thy   bosom's    snow, 

And   all   the    woman   beams   upon   my   sight  ! 
I   kneel    unto    the   queen,    like   knight   of  yore ; 
The   maid   I   love ;   the    woman   I   adore ! 


EPIGRAMS. 

ON     A     FAMOUS     WATER-SUIT. 

MY   wonder   is   really  boundless 

That   among   the   queer   cases    we   try, 

A   land-case   should   often   be   groundless, 
And   a   water-case   always   be   dry ! 


KISSING     CASUISTRY. 

WHEN   SARAH  JANE,   the  moral  Miss, 
Declares   't  is   very   wrong   to    kiss, 

I  '11   bet   a   shilling   I   see   through   it ; 
The   damsel,   fairly   understood, 
Feels  just   as   any    Christian    should,  — 

She  'd   rather   suffer   wrong   than    do    it ! 


EPIGRAMS.  159 


THE     LOST     CHARACTER. 

JULIA   is   much   concerned,    God   wot, 

For   the   good   name  —  she   has  n't   got ; 

So   mortgagors   are   often  known 

To   guard   the   soil   they   deem   their   own ; 

As   if,   forsooth,   they   didn't   know 

The   land   was   forfeit   long   ago ! 


REVERSING    THE    FIGURES. 

MARIA,  just   at   twenty,   swore 

That   no   man   less   than    six   feet   four 

Should  be  her  chosen  one. 
At  thirty  she  is  glad  to  fix 
A  spouse  exactly  four  feet  six, 

As   better   far   than   none ! 


TO     A     POETICAL     CORRESPONDENT. 

ROSE   hints   she   isn't   one   of  those 
Who   have   the   gift   of  writing   prose  ; 
But   poetry 's   une   autre   chose, 
And   quite   an   easy   thing   to   Rose ! 


160  EPIGRAMS. 

As   if  an    artist    should   decline, 
For   lack   of  skill,    to   paint   a    sign, 
But,   try   him   in   the   landscape   line, 
You  '11   find   his   genius    quite   divine ! 


A     DILEMMA. 


"  WHENEVER   I   marry,"   says   masculine    ANN, 
"  I   must   really   insist   upon    wedding   a   man ! " 
But   what   if  the   man    (for   men    are   but   human) 
Should   be   equally   nice   about   wedding   a   woman  • 


ON    A    LONG-WINDED     ORATOR. 

THREE    Parts   compose   a   proper   speech, 
(So   wise    Quintilian's   maxims   teach,) 
But   LOQUAX   never   can    get   through, 
In   his   orations,   more    than   two. 
He    does  n't   stick   at   the    "  Beginning  ; " 

O  O    " 

His   "Middle"    comes   as    sure   as    sinning; 
Indeed,   the   whole   one   might   commend, 
Could   he   contrive   to   make   an    "End!" 


EPIGRAMS.  161 

THE     THREE     WIVES  :    A    JUBILATION. 

MY   First   was   a   lady   whose    dominant   passion 
Was   thorough   devotion   to   parties    and   fashion ; 
My    Second,   regardless   of  conjugal   duty, 
"Was    only   the    worse   for   her   wonderful   beauty ; 
My    Third  was   a   vixen   in   temper   and   life, 
Without   one   essential   to   make   a   good   wife. 
Jubilate !   at   last   in   my   freedom   I   revel, 
For   I'm   clear   of  the   World,   and    the    Flesh,   and 
the   Devil! 


ll 


THE    PRESS. 


RECITED    BEFORE   THE   LITERARY    SOCIETIES    OF    BROWN     UNIVEU- 
SITY,     1855. 


THE    PRESS. 


A  WORTHY   parson,  once   upon   a  time, 
Weary  of  listening   to   the   sober   rhyme 
That,  of  a   winter's   evening,  chanced   to  fall 
From   a  young   poet   in   a   lecture   hall, 
His   disappointment   openly  confessed, 
And   thus   his   censure   to   a   friend   confessed :  — 
"  The   poem,  Sir,  is   well    enough   no   doubt, 
But   so   much   preaching   one  could   do   without ; 
A  little  wit   had   pleased   me   more   by   half; 
I   did  n't   come   to   learn,  I   came   to   laugh ! " 

So   goes   the   world ;    his   very  soul   to   save 
They  will   not   let   poor   Harlequin   be   grave; 
But  vote   him   weaker  than   a  vestry-mouse, 
Unless,  like    Samson,  he   brings    down   the   house! 


166  THE   PRESS. 

Alas !    to-day,  if  such   a   rule    prevail, 
My  sober  muse  were    surely  doomed    to   fail ; 
Her  subject   grave   demands   a   serious    song, 
And   trivial   treatment  were   ignobly  wrong.    < 
Yet   let   me   hope   that   e'er   my  song  be   done, 
When    satire    comes    to   punish  with   a   pun, 
Some    pleasant   fancy  may  your   hearts   beguile, 
And  win   the   favor   of  an   answering  smile. 

I   sing   the   Press ;    O   sweet   Enchantress,  bring 
Fit   inspiration   for   the   theme  I   sing, 
The    Art   of  Arts,  whose   earliest,  freshest   fame, 
With   fierce   debate,   three   rival   cities   claim; 
The   glorious   art,  that,  scorning   humbler   birth, 
Came   at   a   bound   upon   the  wondering   earth,1 
Full-armed   and   strong  her   instant  might   to  prove, 
A   new  Minerva   from   the   brain   of  Jove! 

I   marvel   not   that   rival   towns    dispute 
Where   first   the   goddess   set   her   radiant   foot ; 
That   blest  Mayence,  with  honest  pride,  should   boast 
The  wondrous   Bible   of  her  wizard   Faust ; 


THE   PRESS.  167 

That    Haarlem,  jealous   of  her   proper   fame, 
Erects   a   statue   to    her    Coster's   name ; 
While    Strasburg's    cits    contemning   all    beside, 
Vaunt   their   own   hero   with   an    equal   pride. 

How  shall   the   poet   venture   to   explain 

Where   plodding    History   labors    still   in   vain 

To   solve   the   mystery  —  the   vexing   doubt 

That   only   deepens  with   the  deepening   shout 

Of  angry  partisans  ?     The   Muse    essays 

The   dangerous   task,   and    thus   awards  the   bays :  — 

Where   counter   claims   the   highest   merit   hide, 

If  large   the   gift,   'tis   fairest   to   divide. 

Honor   to   all   who   shared   a    noble  part 

To   find,  to   cherish,  or   adorn   the  art; 

Honor  to   him   who,  with   enraptured   eye, 

First   saw  the   nymph   descending   from    the   sky ; 

Honor   to  him,  whatever   his  name   or   land, 

The   first   to   kneel,  and   kiss   her   royal   hand ; 

Thrice   honored  he  who,  piercing   the   disguise 

That   barred   her   beauty  from   obtuser   eyes, 

First   gave  her   shelter,  when    the    dusky  maid 

Knocked   at   his   door   in   homely  garb    arrayed, 


168  THE   PRESS. 


And   found   at   length,  beyond   his  hopes  or  prayers. 
He  'd   wooed   and  won  an   angel    unawares  ! 


I   sing   the    Press;    alas,   'twere   much   the   same 
As   though   the   Muse   essayed   the   trump   of  fame ; 
Though   something   harsh   and   grating   in   its    tone, 
She   keeps   a   mightier   trumpet   of  her   own,  — 
The   which,  while    Freedom's   banner   is   unfurled, 
Shall   swell  her  paeans  through  the  wondering  world ! 

Strange   is   the   sound  when   first   the    notes   begin 
Where   human   voices   blend  with  Vulcan's   din ; 
The    click,  the  clank,  the  clangor,  and   the    sound 
Of  rattling   rollers   in  their    rapid   round; 
The  whizzing   belt,  the   sharp   metallic  jar, 
Like    clashing   spears    in   fierce   chivalric  war ; 
The  whispering  birth  of  myriad  flying  leaves, 
Gathered,  anon,  in    countless   motley  sheaves, 
Then   scattered   far,  as   on   the  winged  wind, 
The   mortal   nurture   of  th'   immortal   mind ! 

I  'm   fond   of  books ;    't  is   pleasant   to  behold 
In  various   apparel,  new  and  old, 


THE   PRESS.  169 

The  quaint   array  of  well-adjusted   tomes 
That    grace   the   mantels  of  our   rural   homes ; 
The  Bible,  Bunyan,  Baxter,  and   a   score 
Of  colder   lights,  from    Hume   to   Hannah   More; 
Ripe  with    great   thoughts   and   histories,  or   full 
Of  pious  homilies,  devout   and   dull. 
Nor   do   I   scorn   those   half-forgotten   books 
That   lie    neglected   in    obscurer   nooks 
Where   poets   mould,  and    critic-spiders    spin 
Their  flimsy  lines    to   mock   the    lines  within ! 
For   here    the    curious   questioner   may  find 
The   pregnant   hint  that   in    some  ampler   mind 
Grew  to   a   thought,  and    honors   now  the    page 
That  beams   the   brightest   on   the   present   age. 

I   love  vast   libraries ;    revere   the   fame 

Of  all   the    Ptolemies ;    and   each   other   name, 

JEmilius,  Augustus,  Crassus    Caesar,  all 

The  old    collectors,   whether  great   or  small, 

Who   helped   the   cause   of  learning   to   advance, — 

Trajan   and  Bodley,  Charles   the    Wise   of  France, 

Kings,  nobles,  knights,   who,  anxious    of  renown 

Beyond   the  fame   of  garter,  spur,  or  crown, 


170  THE  PRESS. 

And  wisely  provident  against   decay, 

(Since   parchment   lives   while   marble   melts  away,) 

Reared   to   their  honor   literary  domes, 

And   grew  immortal   in   immortal   tomes ! 

Grand   are   the   pyramids,  although    the   stones 
Are   but   the   graves   of  rotten   human    bones 
That   bear,  alas,  nor   name,  nor  crest,  nor  date 
To   show  the  world   their   former   regal   state. 
Compared  with   these   how   noble   and   sublime 
The   garnered   excellence   of  every  clime 
Reared  in  vast   Pantheons,  and   finely  wrought 
From   sill   to   cap  —  stone   of  immortal   thought ! 

Here,    e'en   the  sturdy  democrat  may  find, 
Nor  scorn  their   rank,  the   nobles   of  the  mind; 
While   kings   may  learn,  nor   blush   at   being   shown. 
How  Learning's   patents   abrogate   their   own. 
A   goodly  company  and   fair  to   see; 
Royal   plebeians ;    earls   of  low  degree ; 
Beggars  whose  wealth   enriches   every  clime ; 
Princes  who   scarce   can   boast   a   mental  dime ; 
Crowd   here   together   like   the   quaint   array 


THE   PRESS.  171 

Of  jostling  neighbors    on   a   market    day. 
Homer  and   Milton  —  can  we    call   them    blind  ?  — 
Of  godlike   sight,  the   vision   of  the   mind; 
Shakespeare,  who   calmly   looked   creation    through, 
"  Exhausted  worlds   and   then   imagined  new ; " 
Plato   the    sage,  so   thoughtful   and   serene, 
He   seems    a    prophet   by  his   heavenly  mien ; 
Shrewd    Socrates,  whose   philosophic   power 
Xantippe    proved   in    many   a   trying   hour ; 
And   Aristophanes,  whose   humor   run 
In    vain    endeavor   to   be-"  cloud "   the   sun ; 2 
Majestic   ^Eschylus,   whose   glowing   page 
Holds   half  the   grandeur   of  the   Athenian   stage ; 
Pindar,  whose   odes,  replete  with   heavenly  fire, 
Proclaim    the   master   of  the    Grecian   lyre ; 
Anacreon,  famed   for  many   a   luscious   line 
Devote   to  Venus   and   the   god   of  wine. 

I   love   vast  libraries ;    yet   there   is   a   doubt 
If  one   be   better   with   them   or   without, — 
Unless   he    use    them  wisely,    and,   indeed, 
Knows   the   high   art   of  what   and   how   to   read ; 
At   Learning's    fountain   it   is    sweet   to    drink, 


172  THE   PRESS. 

But   'tis   a   nobler   privilege   to   think; 
And   oft,   from   books   apart,   the    thirsting   mind 
May  make   the   nectar   which   it   cannot   find. 
'T  is   well   to   borrow  from    the   good   and    great ; 
'T  is   wise   to   learn ;   't  is   godlike   to   create ! 

There   is   a   story  which   my  purpose   suits; 
Tis   told   by   Bichter   of  the   author    Wuz  — 
A   poor   lone    scholar  who,  in    urgent   need 
(Or   so   he    thought)    of  learned   books   to   read, 
Wept  o'er   his    poverty,    lamenting   sore, 
(The    while   a   catalogue   he   pondered   o'er,) 
Of  all   the   charming   works   that  met   his   eye, 
Not   one,   alas !   his   meagre   purse   could   buy. 
While   musing   thus,   his   racked   invention    brought 
To   weeping    Wuz  for  once   a   lucky  thought : 
"  Eureka  ! "    cried   the   scholar,    with   a   roar,  — 
As  Archimedes    shouted   once   before, — 
"  I   have   it !  —  True,   my   purse   is   rather   scant, 
But   then   this    catalogue    shows   what   I    want, 
And   so   who   cares   for   poverty   or   pelf  ?  — 
I  '11   take   my   pen   and    write   the   books    myself ! " 


THE   PRESS.  173 

Where   be   our   authors    now  ?     The   noble   band 
Dwindles   apace   from    off  the   famished   land. 
Scarce   a   round   dozen,  at   the   best,   remain 
Of  all   who   once,   among   the   author-train, 
Wrote  books   like  scholars ;  —  nor  esteemed   it  hard. 
Genius   like   Virtue   was   its   own   reward. 

O   gentle    Irving !  —  thou   whom   every    grace 
Of  wit   and   learning   gave   the   highest   place 
In   the   proud   synod   of  the   old   regime, 
In   all   thy   dreaming,    didst   thou    ever   dream 
To   see   thy   craft   a   mere   mechanic   art, 
The    servile    minion    of   the    bookish    mart  ?  — 
When   authorship    should   be   the   merest   trade, 
And   men   make   books  as  hats  and  boots  are  made? 
Didst   ever   dream   to   see   the   wondrous   day 
When  the  vexed  press    should    spawn  the  vast  array 
Of  trashy    tomes   that   on    the   public   burst, 
So   fast,   they   print   the   "Tenth    Edition"    first? 
Thou    hast   not   read   them.     God   forbid!     It   racks 
One's   brains   enough   to   see   their   brazen    backs. 
Yet   thou   wilt   smile,   I   know,    when   thou   art  told 
That    with   each   book   the   buyer   too   is   "  sold "  ; 


174  THE   PRESS. 

That   soon    the   puffing   art   shall   all   be    vain, 
And    sense   and   reason   rule   the   town    again. 

Sweet   to   the   traveller    is   the   urchin's    chimes, 
Proclaiming,   "  'Ere's   your  'Erald,  Tribune,  Times  ! " 
Those   lively   records   of  the   passing   day, 
That   catch   the   echo,    ere   it   dies   away, 
Of  battle,   bravery,   sudden   death,    and   all 
That   human   minds   can  startle    or   appall ; 
Marriage   and   murder ;    things   of  different   name, 
Alas !    that   oft  the   two    should   be   the    same ! 
Letters   describing   merry  rural   scenes ; 
Ship-news,    and,   often,    news    for   the   Marines ; 
Fortune's   bright   favors,  and   Misfortune's   shocks ; 
The   fall   of  Hungary   and   the   fall   of  stocks; 
The   important   page   that   tells   the    thrilling   tale 
How   Empires   rise,   and   "  Red    Republics "   fail ; 
How   England's   lion,   loitering   in   his   lair, 
Essays   in    vain   to   fright   the    Russian    bear ; 
How    France,   bemoaning   the    expensive    war, 
Would   give   her   "  Louis,"   to   save   her   louis-d'or ; 
While   the   poor  Turk,  whom   hapless   luck    attends, 
Cries,  "  Gracious  Allah !    save  me  from  my  friends ! " 


THE   PRESS.  175 

I    have   a   neighbor,   of  eccentric   views, 

Who   has   a    mortal   horror   of  the   news ; 

As    lessons   are   to   boys,   when   long   and    hard ; 

Spiders,    to    ladies ;   censure,    to   a   bard ; 

To   losers,   bets ;    to    holders,    railway   stock ; 

Lectures    to   husbands,   after   ten   o'clock ; 

Bacon   to    Hebrews,   or   to    Quakers,    war ; 

Squalls    to   a   sailor,   or   a   bachelor ; 

To    Satan   prayer-books,   or   to   Islam,    wine, 

So   are   "  the   papers "   to   this   friend   of  mine. 

You  've   but   to   ask   him,   in   the    common   way, 

The   usual   question,   and  to   your   dismay, 

He  '11   pour,   remorseless,   on   your   tingling   ear, 

Such   streams   of  satire   as   you  '11   quake   to    hear. 

"  The  News  ?  —  Thank   Heaven  !  —  I  'in  not  the  man 

to   know, 

I   do   not   take    the   papers ;    you   can   go, 
If  you   possess   the   patience   and   the   pelf, 
And   read   the   lying   journals   for   yourself; 
I   hate,   despise,   detest,   abhor   them   all, 
Hebdomadal,   diurnal,   great,   and   small. 
The   News,   indeed !  —  pray  do   you    call   it   news 
When    shallow   noddles    publish   shallow  views  ? 


176  THE   PRESS. 

Pray,   is   it   news   that   turnips   should   be   bred 
As   large   and   hollow   as   the   owner's   head  ? 
News,   that   a   clerk    should   rob   his   master's    hoard, 
Whose   meagre   salary   scarcely   pays    his  board  ? 
News,  that  two  knaves,  their  spurious  friendship  o'er, 
Should  tell  the  truths  which  they  concealed  before? 
News,   that   a   maniac,   weary   of  his   life, 
Should   end   his   sorrows   with   a   rope   or   knife? 
News,   that   a   wife   should   violate   the   vows 
That   bind   her,   loveless,   to   a   tyrant   spouse  ? 
News,   that   a   daughter   cheats   paternal   rule, 
And   weds   a   scoundrel   to   escape   a  fool  ?  — 
The   news,   indeed !  —  Such   matters   are   as   old 
As   sin   and   folly,   rust   and   must   and   mould ; 
Nor   fit   to   publish   even   when,   in   sooth, 
By  merest  chance  the   papers   tell  the   truth!" 

So   raves   my   friend,  —  a   worthy   man   enough, 
But   in   his   utterance   rather   rude   and   rough ; 
Fond   of  extremes,   and    so   exceeding   strong, 
E'en   in   the   right   he's   often   in   the    wrong. 
One   of  those   people   whom   you   may   have   seen, 
(You   know   them   always   by   their   nervous   mien,) 


THE   PRESS.  177 

Who   when   they   go   a-fishing   in    the    well 
Where    Truth,    the   angel,    is   supposed   to    dwell, 
So   very   roughly    knock   the    nymph    about, 
She   kicks   the   bucket   ere   she  'a   fairly   out !  — 
Yet,    if  they    would,    the   noble   lords   of  print. 
E'en  from  my  friend,   might   take  a  wholesome  hint. 

O  for   a   pen   with   Hogarth's   genius   rife 
To   paint   the   scenes   of  Editorial   life. 
The    tale,   I   know,  is    rather   trite   and   old, 
And   yet,   perchance,   it   may   be   freshly  told, 
As    some   plain   dish,   a   simple    roast   or   stew, 
Takes   a   new    flavor   in   a    French   ragout. 

SCENE  —  a   third   story   in   a   dismal    court, 
Where    weary   printers  just   at   eight    resort ; 
A   dingy   door   that    with   a   rattle   shuts; 
Heaps  of  "Exchanges,"  much  adorned  with   "cuts;" 
Pens,   paste,   and   paper    on   the  table   strewed; 
Books,  to  be   read   when   they  have  been   reviewed ; 
Pamphlets   and    tracts   so   very   dull   indeed 
That   only  they  who   wrote   them    e'er  will    read; 
Nine   letters,   touching   themes   of  every   sort, 

12 


178  THE   PRESS. 

And    one    with   money — just   a   shilling   short  — 
Lie    scattered   round   upon   a   common   level. 
PERSONS  —  the    Editor  ;   enter,   now,  the   Devil :  — 
"  Please,    Sir,   since   this   'ere   article  was   wrote, 
There  'a   later  news  perhaps   you  'd  like  to   quote :  — 
"  The    allies  storming  with  prodigious  force, 
Se-fozs-to-pol   is   down ! "     "  Set  it   up,   of  course." 
"  And    Sir,   that   murder 's   done  —  there 's   only   left 
One   larceny."     "  Pray   don't   omit   the   theft." 
"  And    Sir,   about   the   mob  —  the    matter 's   fat "  — 
"  The    mob  ?  —  that 's   wrong  —  pray   just   distribute 

that." 

"  And   here 's   an   article   has   come   to   hand, 
A  reg'lar,   'rig'nal   package  "  —  "  Let   that   stand  ! " 
Exit   the   imp   of  Faust,   and   enter  now 
A  fierce    subscriber   with   a   scowling   brow ;  — 
"  Sir,   curse   your    paper  !  —  send   the   thing   to  "  — 

Well, 

The    place   he   names   were   impolite  to   tell; 
Enough   to   know  the  hero   of  the   Press 
Cries,   "  Thomas,  change  the  gentleman's  address ! 
We  '11   send   the   paper,  if  the   post   will   let   it, 
Where   the    subscriber   will   be   sure   to   get   it ! " 


THE    PRESS.  179 

Who   would    not   be    an  Editor  ?  —  To   write 
The   magic   "  we "   of  such    enormous   might ; 
To   be   so    great   beyond    the    common   span 
It   takes   the   plural   to   express   the   man ; 
And   yet,   alas,   it   happens   oftentimes 
A  unit   serves   to   number   all   his   dimes ! 

But  don't  despise   him;    there   may  chance   to    be 
An '  earthquake   lurking   in    his   simple    "  we  !  " 

In   the   close   precincts   of  a    dusty   room 
That   owes  few   losses   to   the   lazy   broom, 
There   sits   the   man ;    you    do   not   know   his   name, 
Brown,   Jones,   or   Johnson  —  it   is   all   the    same  — 
Scribbling   away  at   what   perchance   may  seem 
An   idler's   musing,   or   a   dreamer's   dream ; 
His    pen    runs   rambling,   like    a   straying   steed ; 
The   "we"   he   writes    seems    very    "wee"   indeed; 
But   mark   the  change ;    behold    the  wondrous  power 
Wrought   by   the   Press   in   one   eventful   hour ; 
To-night,   't  is   harmless   as    a   maiden's  rhymes ; 
To-morrow,    thunder   in    the   London    Times! 
The   ministry   dissolves   that   held   for   years; 
Her    Grace,    the   Duchess,   is   dissolved    in   tears ; 


180  THE   PRESS. 

The     Rothschilds     quail ;     the    church,     the     army, 

quakes ; 

The   very  kingdom    to   its   centre   shakes; 
The    Corn   Laws    fall ;    the    price    of   bread    comes 

down  — 
Thanks  to  the   "we"  of  Johnson,  Jones,  or  Brown! 

Firm   in   the   right,   the    daily  Press  should  be 
The   tyrant's   foe,   the   champion   of  the   free; 
Faithful   and   constant   to   its    sacred   trust ; 
Calm   in   its   utterance ;    in   its  judgments,  just ; 
Wise   in   its   teaching ;    uncorrupt,   and   strong 
To   speed   the   right,   and   to   denounce   the    wrong. 
Long   may   it   be   ere   candor   must   confess 
On    Freedom's   shores   a   weak   and   venal   Press. 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 

NOTE  1,  Page  166. 
"  Came  at  a  bound  upon  the  wondering  earth.111 

It  is  a  notable  fact,  —  as  one  may  see  by  a  glance  at 
the  early  specimens  of  printing,  —  that  typography  was  at 
the  very  first  so  excellent  as  to  leave  little  room  for  im 
provement.  With  equal  truth  and  felicity  it  has  been 
called,  "  Ars  simul  inventa  atfjue  perfecta." 

NOTE  2,  Page  171. 

"  Aristophanes,  whose  humor  run 
In  vain  endeavor  to  be-1  cloud'  the  SM«." 

An  allusion  to  the  comedy  of  "  The  Clouds,"  written 
in  ridicule  of  Socrates. 


YE  PEDAGOGUE, 

A    CONTEMPLATIVE   BALLAD. 
UY   JOHN    Q.  SAXK. 


Righte  learned  is  ye  Pedagogue, 
Fulle  apt  to  reade  and  spelle; 

And  eke  to  teache  ye  ]>art<  of  speeche, 
And  strap  ye  urchins  welle. 


-  't  is  meete  to  soake  ye  feete, 
Ye  ailinge  heade  to  mende  ; 

V<-  y.iunk.-r'-  ]-ut««  to  stimulate, 
IK-  beat*  ye  other  ende! 

e  lordlie  is  ye  Pedagogue 
A-  any  turban'd  Turke  ; 
For  welle  to  rule  ye  District  Schoole 
It  is  no  idle  worke. 

For  oft  Rebellion  lurketh  there 

In  breaste  of  secret*-  : 
Of  malice  fulle,  in  waite  to  pulle 

Ye  Pedagogue  his  nose ! 


Sometimes  he  heares,  with  trembling  feares, 

<  M  ye  ungodlie  rogue 
On  mlschieffe  bent,  with  felle  intent 

To  licke  ye  Pedagogue ! 

And  if  ye  Pedagogue  be  smalle, 
When  to  ye  battell  led, 

h  a  pliirhte,  God  sende  him  mighte, 
To  break e  ye  rogue  his  he; 

.fter  day**,  fur  little  paye, 
II     u-aeheth  what  he  can, 
And  bears  ye  yoke,  to  please  ye  folke, 
And  ye  Committee-man. 

Ah  !  many  crosses  hath  he  borne, 

And  many  trials  founde, 
Y.   while  he  trudged  ye  district  through, 

And  boarded  rounde  and  rounde  ! 

Ah  !  many  a  steake  hath  he  devoured, 

That,  by  ye  taste  and  sighte, 
W   -  in  disdaine,  'twas  very  plaine, 

Of  Day  his  patent  righte ! 

Fulle  solemn  is  ye  Pedagogue, 

Amonge  ye  noisy  churls; 
Yet  other  while  he  hath  a  smile 

To  give  ye  handsome  girls ! 

And  one  —  ye  fayrest  mayde  of  all  — 

To  cheere  \\\<  wayninge  life, 
Shall  he,  when  Springe  ye  tlowers  shall  bring, 

Ye  Pedagogue  his  wife! 


0^=*  Any  books  in  this  list  will  be  sent  free  of  postage,  on  receipt 
of  price. 


BOSTON,  135  WASHINGTON  STREET, 
OCTOBER,  1859. 

A   LIST   OF   BOOKS 

PUBLISHED    BY 

TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 


Sir  Walter  Scott. 

ILLUSTRATED  HOUSEHOLD  EDITION  OF  THE  WAVBR- 
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Price  75  cents  a  volume. 

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graved  in  the  best  manner,  after  drawings  and  paintings  by  the 
most  eminent  artists,  among  whom  are  Birket  Foster,  Darley, 
Billings,  Landseer,  Harvey,  and  Faed.  This  Edition  contains 
all  the  latest  notes  and  corrections  of  the  author,  a  Glossary  and 
Index ;  and  some  curious  additions,  especially  in  "  Guy  Man- 
nering"  and  the  "Bride  of  Lammermoor ; "  being  the  fullest 
edition  of  the  Novels  ever  published.  Tlie  notes  are  at  the  foot 
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GUY  MANNERIXG,  2  TO!S.  REDGAUNTLET,  2  vols. 

THE  ANTIQUARY,  2  vols.  THE  BETROTHED,  )  9  „,_ 

ROB  Ror,  2  vols.  THE  HIGHLAND  WIDOW,    j  a  VO1S' 

OLD  MORTALITY,  2  vols.  THE  TALISMAN,  ] 

BLACK  DWARF,  1 2    nl  ^wo  DROVERS, 

LEGEND  OF  MONTROSE,    )  MY  AUNT  MARGARET'S  MIRROR,  }>2  vols. 

HEART  OF  MID  LOTHIAN,  2  vols.  THE  TAPESTRIED  CHAMBER, 

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IVANHOE,  2  vols.  WOODSTOCK,  2  vols. 

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THE  ABBOT,  2  vols.  ANNE  OF  GEIERSTEIN,  2  vols. 

KENILWORTH,  2  vols.  COUNT  ROBERT  OF  PARIS,  2  vols. 

THE  PIRATE,  2  vols.       .  THE  SURGEON'S  DAUGHTER.  ) 

THE  FORTUNES  OF  NIGEL.  2  vols.  CASTLE  DANGEROUS,  '  }  2  vols 

PEVERIL  OF  THE  PEAK,  2  vols.  INDEX  AND  GLOSSARY. 

QUENTIN  DURWARD,   2  VOls. 


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